Winter Duty
CHAPTER EIGHT

The Kentucky Freehold: Births are messy endeavors, biological or political.
Even the name "Kentucky Freehold" could be considered a mess, because the territory under control of the Assembly didn't include her two most populous cities, but it did include a few counties in Tennessee between the Big South Fork and Dale Hollow Lake and the chunk of Indiana around Evansville.
In that winter of 2076, the Kentucky Freehold voted into existence by the Assembly was a name only. There wasn't even a cohesive idea behind the name. There was no constitution, no separation of powers, no way to raise money nor legitimate channels in which to spend it. In the weeks after the vote, the Assembly adjourned to their home clans, towns, estates, and businesses to work out quick elections of delegates to the new freehold legislature.
The one piece of business the Assembly did manage to conduct was to vote into existence an Army of Kentucky. The A-o-K, as it came to be known, was to receive all the "manpower or material necessary to effect a defense of the Kentucky Free State," but who was to give what was left to the parties concerned.
As to the Southern Command forces in Kentucky, the Assembly reasoned that forces at Fort Seng were installed to help Kentucky-and help, to the Assembly's mind, would flow like water through a pipe from Southern Command's little force to Kentucky.
Fort Seng was full of new arrivals.
Valentine thought he was dreaming when he met the first of them as he led his companies back from Owensboro. A handsome young black man in Wolf deerskins emerged from cover at a good overwatch on the highway running east from Henderson to Owensboro.
"Frat," Valentine said. "You can't be-You're Moytana's replacement?" It wouldn't do to hug in front of all the men, so he settled for an exchange of salutes and handshakes.
Valentine hadn't seen him in years, since he'd discovered him in Wisconsin living with Molly Carlson's family. Though they'd never served together beyond the events in Wisconsin, Valentine's recommendation had won him a place in the Wolves.
The commission Frat had earned on his own.
"Major Valentine. Welcome back. We've heard the good news about the vote," he said in a deeper voice than Valentine remembered. He wore lieutenant's bars, and had dark campaign stripes running across the shoulder fabric on his ammunition vest.
Valentine hopped out of the truck, tossing his diaper bag on the seat. He'd decided he liked the bag; he always seemed to be carrying paperwork, and it also comfortably fit a couple of spare pairs of underwear and an extra layer or two in case it turned colder.
Frat eyed the bag. "Heard you were dead, Major."
"I heard the same about you," Valentine said. "Frat," Valentine said again. It wouldn't do to stand dumbstruck, so he fiddled with his glove as he pulled it off. "Lieutenant Carlson, I mean."
"Good to see you, sir."
"Wolf replacements arrived, then?"
"My platoon, from the reserve. We were part of the regimental general reserve. We scouted for the Rio Grande operation, came home dog-tired and thinking, Job well done. Got the bad news once we reached Fort Smith. Men still wanted to go back and volunteered-but they sent us here instead."
"Moytana was a good officer. You can learn a lot from him, even if it's just by a quick changeover briefing and by reading his paperwork. I'll see if I can get a few of his Wolves to remain behind to orient your Wolves."
"Thank you, sir. Actually, I was glad to hear I'll be serving with you. Not exactly again, but . . ."
"I know what you mean. It's good to see you too, Lieutenant."
Valentine wondered why Frat was still only a lieutenant. Of course, he was very young, and the Wolves had nothing higher than colonel, so there were only so many spaces on the rungs to climb.
"I stopped in to see Molly on my way to Jonesboro," Frat said. "She sends her regards. I have a letter from Edward, but, well. . . you know."
"I know." Valentine found himself looking forward to reading it. Strange, that. He had a biological connection to a girl who barely knew he existed, and an invented fiction connecting him to another man's son. Life liked playing jokes with his feelings, rearranging relationships like an old magnetic poetry set.
"I'm not the only new arrival. My platoon guided in some civilians. Well, quasi-civilians, but I'll let herself explain it to you."
Valentine and Frat swapped chitchat the rest of the way back to Fort Seng. Frat made a few inquiries about Valentine's command. There were the most incredible rumors floating around Southern Command about his organization: They were all convicted criminals under death sentence, choosing service instead of the rope, or Valentine had an all-girl bodyguard of legworm-riding Amazons, or he was building a private army of freebooters who were stripping Kentucky like locusts of everything from legworm egg hides to bourbon.
"Southern Command scuttlebutt," Valentine said. "How I miss it."
Back at Fort Seng, Valentine observed some new vehicles in the well-guarded motor lot. The vehicles were an ill-matched set compared to Sime's quick-moving column and looked better suited for extensive off-road operation. They had extra tires and cans marked "diesel," "gas," and "water" mounted on them.
He reported to Lambert first, who only told him that they had a new set of headaches for the battalion but that it might work out to the benefit of the Cause in general and the battalion in particular. Then he drank a large, cold glass of milk-it was goat's milk; cow milk had run out-and went out to observe the arrivals.
They were equally interested in meeting him. Frat offered to introduce him to the visitors.
The gathering looked like a small, well-armed gypsy camp filled with people in neatly mended surplus uniforms that had a sort of broken double ring stitched on the shoulders.
If Valentine had been forced to describe the woman following the corporal walking up to him, he would have said "statuesque." Her face, under a bush hat with the brim stuck up on the left with a jaunty feathered pin, might have been molded alabaster. He put her age as fortyish or a very youthful-looking fifty, though her eyes danced with an ageless sparkle, blue ice on fire. She wore a long leather skirt and steel-tipped jodhpur boots with thick canvas half chaps, and she evidently knew enough about uniforms to pick him out as the ranking officer.
"Visitor in camp, Major," the corporal reported. "Mrs. O'Coombe, with a Southern Command travel warrant."
As Valentine introduced himself, she shook his hand. The almost challenging grip and steady eye contact marked her as a Texan.
Valentine knew the name O'Coombe. The family owned the largest cattle ranch in the United Free Republics-some said it stretched beyond the official borders. Now that he had a name, he even recognized the emblem on their fatigues, the Hooked O-C. They were said to be fabulously wealthy. At least as such things were measured in the Freehold.
"Mister Valentine. I've read about you on several occasions, as I recall. You're just the man I want to see about my venture into Kentucky."
She said the word "Mister" with such polite friendliness, he had no business correcting her. But her use of the word "venture" put Valentine on his guard. Was she some kind of wildcatter with an eye toward opening up a trade in legworm leather?
"I have here, Mister Valentine, a letter from the president himself. President Starpe was a good friend of my late husband's. He dined on our ranch on three occasions while in office and was a frequent visitor before."
She reached into her hacking jacket and removed a folded manila envelope. The letter within had a foil seal over a red-and-blue ribbon, with the outgoing presidential signature and a notation indicating it had been transcribed by his personal secretary.
After noting that it was simply addressed to "Officer, executive, or mariner commanding" and contained some polite words of thanks, Valentine read to the meat of the letter.
Please offer whatever aid and assistance to Mrs. Bethany O'Coombe you consider practical. The retrieval and return of any and all of our wounded left behind on last summer's retreat would be, in my opinion, invaluable to our cause as well as the morale of the forces of Southern Command.
Mrs. O'Coombe is a personal friend of mine. She can be trusted with Southern Command information and materiel relevant to her plans, and her signature would be accepted on any equipment voucher if she requests the use of any device or machine. I would consider it a singular favor for you to offer her any assistance that does not materially endanger your other duties.
A crusader. Valentine had seen a few in his time, dedicated to relieving Southern Command of the evils of drink or the dangers of professional women and syphilis. This woman was clearly here to do more than give a few speeches, take a few oaths, or show some slides of tertiary cases. Were these vehicles a specialized medical train to care for the few wounded that remained in Fort Seng's small hospital?
"I would be delighted to accommodate you, Mrs. O'Coombe. Please tell me, how may I be of service?"
She looked around before answering. "I understand that during the battles of this summer, some wounded were left behind with such of our Kentucky allies who could be trusted with their safety. I would like to help recover them. From what I understand of your expertise, Mister Valentine, you have a good deal of experience going in and getting people out of difficulty. I've hoped that you could aid me from the first I heard."
"Why here, Mrs. O'Coombe? As a Texan, I'd think you'd be more interested in the Rio Grande Valley. More troops were involved in that action, I believe. I suspect there are more wounded scattered around southern Texas than we have here. We had the advantage of legworms, you see. All but our worst cases could be moved while remaining in their beds-or hammocks, rather."
"I have a personal interest, Mister Valentine. I recently learned my son was among those left behind as your column retreated from the mountains." Her gaze wavered a little, and Valentine saw what he suspected to be tears. "I have come to get him back. I should like you to guide me across Kentucky. As you're the one who left our soldiers scattered across the Cumberland, I expect you would be the one best able to help me retrieve them."
Frat stiffened a little at that.
"I would suggest that you speak to my commanding officer, ma'am," Valentine suggested.
Lambert heard Mrs. O'Coombe out and invited her to enjoy what hospitality Fort Seng could provide while she considered the matter. Could she perhaps return this evening, for dinner, and there they could discuss the matter in detail?
Mrs. O'Coombe was much obliged and said she'd be delighted.
Valentine was curious, a little aggravated, and anything but delighted at Lambert's response.
"You're not considering sending me across Kentucky as a tour guide for that stack of grief, I hope, sir," he said once Mrs. O'Coombe had left the building.
"I'm certainly inclined to let her have you," Lambert said. "Apart from wanting our wounded back and safe, the gratitude of the Hooked O-C is well worth having. I expect she'll be as influential with the new president as the old."
"I didn't even know her son was with us," Valentine said. "Usually Southern Command tells us when we have to deal with a scion of the carriage trade. Quietly, but they tell us."
"Someone slipped up," Lambert agreed. "Noble of him to volunteer. Mom passed down something besides Texas sand."
Valentine didn't have a number one uniform worthy of a formal dinner with Lambert and their important guest. His least-patched ensemble was the militia corporal's uniform he wore when traveling in Southern Command, but that had bloodstains on it now, and no effort of soap or will could eradicate them.
He settled for the Moondagger robes he'd worn the night he knocked the young Kurian out of its tree, with his leaf clipped on the collar and a Southern Command tricolor pinned to the shoulder.
David Valentine wasn't one to stand in front of a mirror admiring himself, but he had to admit the Moondagger robe-uniform suited him. The various shades of black complemented his skin and dark hair and made his perfectly ordinary brown eyes look a little more striking when set in all that black. His old legworm boots gave him some dash and swagger with their silver accents. The scars on the left side of his face had healed down to not much more than big wrinkles and a pockmark, and the old companion descending his right cheek looked more like the romantic scarring of a dread pirate than the stupid souvenir of nearly having his head blown off.
The dinner was held in the conference room, complete with a white lace tablecloth and candlesticks.
It turned out he needn't have worried about his appearance. Colonel Lambert had invited an eclectic company to her dinner.
Mrs. O'Coombe was there in her same field skirt and little lace-up boots, only now garbed in a silken blouse and a-Valentine couldn't find the word for it. Stole? It was a leather half vest that went around behind her neck and hung down in two narrow pleats in front with bright brass emblems. All Valentine could think of was sleigh bells on a horse.
Fort Seng's three Logistic Commando wagon masters were there as well, two western Kentucky specialists and one more they'd hauled all the way to the Appalachians and back. They smelled faintly of stock animals and sweat, but they'd combed their hair and flattened it with oil. Patel wore his new legion-style captain's uniform and had polished his two canes. That was a bit unlike Nilay Patel; he was more the type to grit his teeth through an evening of aching knees and retire with a bottle of aspirin. Lambert looked trim and neat as one would expect, her hair brushed and shaped by a dress clip for the use of female officers. And finally Alessa Duvalier stood next to the fire, warming her backside and dressed in a little black outfit that must have been liberated from the basement, perhaps from some formal ball of the great man's daughter. A red bra peeked from behind the low-cut front. Valentine vaguely thought it was a sartorial faux pas, but Duvalier's red hair, spiky and disarrayed as usual, made it work.
Odd assortment. If Lambert wanted to impress Mrs. O'Coombe, why not invite Captain Ediyak with her model-cheekbone looks and polished Eastern manners? Why not Gamecock, who had a courtliness all his own behind the braids and scars, smooth as his rolling accent, that showed off some collective unconscious vestige of the grace of old South Carolina?
Brother Mark, the other obvious candidate, was off on a junket with the Agenda from the late Assembly. Or, more correctly, the soon-to-be-late Agenda. They were arranging for the establishment of a temporary government in Kentucky, and the ex-churchman wanted to plead for an office devoted to relations with allies in the Cause.
Valentine joined Duvalier at the fire.
"What the hell is that, Val?" she asked, fingering the finely patterned knit trim on the top robe.
"It's the nicest thing I have that fits me. Some Moondagger's dress-up outfit."
"I've seen those before," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "That's what they wear when they have a date with a Reaper. They treat it like a wedding."
Valentine searched her eyes for some hint of a joke. She did sometimes put him on.
"No joke," she supplied.
"Well, it's still an attractive ensemble," Valentine said. "I like how it looks, so what the hell."
"Your funeral," Duvalier said.
Lambert finished making her introductions, and everyone sat. Valentine sat opposite Lambert with Patel on one side and Duvalier on the other, with the Logistics Commandoes near them. Mrs. O'Coombe was in the place of honor to Lambert's right.
Patel fiddled with his array of silverware. "Which is the one to clean the grease from one's lips, Major?" he asked quietly.
"You can dip your fingers in the fingerbowl and touch them to your lips when you're done eating," Valentine said under his breath.
Lambert, as host, got the Logistics Commandoes talking about their difficulty finding even food staples, with Southern Command currency worthless here and what was left of Colonel Bloom's booty pile diminishing rapidly.
"They want gold, or Kurian bank guarantees, or valuables for trade," one of the Kentuckians said. "We're out of all the usual stuff we trade. Our depots don't have dynamite or two-way radios; not even paper and ink or razor blades."
"The vote didn't change nothing," his friend added.
"We could send a few Wolves with the LCs on their next run, sir," Patel said. "Give them a choice of Southern Command scrip or lead."
Valentine was tempted. "No."
"Been done before, Major," Patel said.
The dishes came out. It was a meager dinner, "ration beef" and seasoned patties made from falafel and corn that would probably be allocated to the pigs on Mrs. O'Coombe's ranch.
Lambert spoke up. "We're trying to teach these recruits that just because you've got a uniform and a gun, whatever you can grab is not yours for the taking. We have to set an example. Tighten our belts."
"We'll be eating our belts before winter's up, at this rate," the third Logistics Commando said.
"Mister Valentine," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation regarding the supply difficulties. I'm traveling with a substantial amount of gold and Kurian Bills of Guarantee."
Duvalier choked on her apple juice.
"I've dealt on both sides of the border often enough to know that one needs hard assets and negotiables to overcome certain bureaucratic difficulties."
"Excuse me, madam, but where did you get bills?" Valentine asked. Bills were certificates guaranteeing "employment, useful or otherwise" for a set period, usually five or ten years. They were extremely difficult to forge. Some said the seals acted in much the same manner as a brass ring, and they were very valuable in the Kurian Zone. Many an old-timer would trade his entire life's accumulation for a five-year certificate.
She read Patel's scowl. "If you think I trade cattle on both sides of Nomansland out of greed, you're wrong, sir. I sometimes find it useful to bribe for or buy what I cannot obtain in the Free Republics."
If she was in a giving vein, Valentine did not want to spoil her mood with accusations. He tapped Patel in the ankle. "Of course we'd be grateful for your assistance. What can you spare?"
"I can give you six thousand C-coin in gold and six Kurian five-year bills. You will, of course, sign a promissory note that I may redeem back at Fort Smith for their cash value, assessed per Logistic Commando fair market pricing of whichever month is current when I turn them in."
Southern Command, perpetually starved for precious metals, would be thrilled to have Mrs. O'Coombe show up demanding hundred-dollar gold coins by the roll. Frontier posts kept gold on hand for smugglers coming out of the Kurian Zone with antibiotics or computer chips or hard intelligence, and they'd be loath to part with it for nothing but a promissory note from a written-off outpost.
How would the loan change the status of Mrs. O'Coombe on the post? The men would learn she was buying their corn-meal and chickens and bacon, one way or another. Suppose she started issuing them orders, as though they were her bunkhouse cowpunchers?
"Dangerous to be traveling with that much gold, ma'am," Patel said, breaking in on Valentine's thoughts. Obvious thing to say. Perhaps Patel was buying him time to think it over.
She smiled, dazzling white teeth against those pink lips. "More dangerous than Reapers, Mister Patel?"
The men had to be fed, one way or another. The only other option would be to go in and take it at gunpoint, and they weren't pirates. At least not yet.
Valentine weighed his options. Once Kentucky got itself organized, Fort Seng would petition for support from the Assembly. Though Valentine wondered if his forces, being neither fish nor fowl, so to speak, would find themselves divested of support from both the rebels in Kentucky and his own Southern Command, especially once General Martinez took over and instituted his new "defensive" policies.
Mrs. O'Coombe waited, her hands clasped decorously in her lap. She'd only nibbled politely at the meager fare.
"Madam, I accept your very generous offer on behalf of my men," Lambert said, her train of thought arriving at the decision platform.
"Always willing to help the Cause, Colonel," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "Now, Mister Valentine, perhaps you will attend to the matter of facilitating me in the effort of finding my son. I would like your advice on routes and what sort of personnel we should bring."
"A complicated question, madam," Valentine said. "It depends on supply capacity in your vehicles, what sort of fuel they need . . ."
Duvalier hummed quietly:
The choice tan, the bought man,
Prisoner 'tween golden sheets . . .
It was a pop tune from just before the cataclysm in 2022 and had been prominently listed on most barroom virtual disc-jockey machines.
Patel let off an explosive fart and excused himself, but it stopped Duvalier's quiet amusement.
Well, if Valentine was going to take her gold, he'd get more for it than butter and eggs. Valentine hemmed and hawed his way through the conversation about the trip to recover her son-and others, of course-and as usual struck upon an idea while his brain was busy fencing with Mrs. O'Coombe.
Valentine escaped Mrs. O'Coombe the next day, pleading that he had to go into Evansville to see about purchasing supplies.
Evansville had an impressive city hall thanks to the region's ample limestone, but it reminded Valentine of a church with long-dead parishioners. Most of the offices were empty.
They should have used the empty rooms for the overflowing waiting room. Luckily, his uniform brought him right to the attention of the city's governor.
How they arrived at that title Valentine didn't know then, but he later learned that since Evansville considered itself a different state than Kentucky even though it was now part of the Kentucky Freehold, by definition it should have a governor as chief executive.
In this case the governor was a former member of the underground named Durand. Professor Durand, actually; he ran a secret college devoted to preserving classical Western education from the tailoring, trimming, and alteration of the Kurian Order.
He reminded Valentine a bit of Trotsky in his dress and glasses, minus the brains and the talent and the vigor.
"Can I help you, Major Valentine?" Durand asked. He was sorting papers into four piles on his desk, and he glanced up at Valentine as he stood before his desk.
Valentine would have sworn in court that he recognized some of the documents from his last visit three weeks ago, before the action at the power station, when he unsuccessfully pleaded for the Evansville provisional government to purchase supplies for Fort Seng.
"You've done so much already, Governor," Valentine said. "I'm simply here to pay my respects before we depart. A last duty call before I plunge into getting the camp relocated."
"Depart?" Durand asked, looking vaguely alarmed and suddenly less interested in the paperwork on his desk.
Valentine examined the walls of the office. A few corners of torn-off Kurian NUC enthusiasm posters remained between the windows. "Yes, the fort will be relocated. For security reasons I can't disclose our destination, but the town's leadership has made a most generous offer, and strategically it makes sense-we'll be closer to the center mass of Kentucky, able to operate on interior lines. . . . You know the military advantages."
"But . . . the underground has word of an armored column north of here. Cannon, armored cars, riot buses, gunabagoes . . ."
"Yes, how is the city militia progressing in its training? The key is to brush back the infantry support. Then it's much easier to take out the armor."
"You've made so many improvements to your camp, I understand. Hot water, electricity . . ."
"Perhaps your militia can relocate and take advantage of all our hard work. True, that would mean a longer response time if you needed them to deal with, say, some airdropped Reapers."
"What is this other town offering you?"
"Offering? I'm doing my duty, Professor, not engaging in bid taking."
"Surely Evansville has its advantages. The textile plant, the appliances, our phone system . . ."
"All are superior to central Kentucky, I grant you," Valentine said. "But my men are running short on eggs and dairy and fresh meat and vegetables. The new town has offered to supply us amply. I have to consider the health and fitness of my men."
Valentine took out some of the gold coins Mrs. O'Coombe had so generously offered. "Of course, we'll have more difficulty purchasing building materials, tenting, plumbing supplies, munitions, uniforms, and such in Kentucky. After I've finished here, I will visit the marketplace and see if I can't have a selection packed and ready for transport."
Durand's eyes watched the jingling coins. "We've had something of a food crisis here, as well," Durand said. "It appears to be easing since the vote to declare openly against the Kurian Order. We've been neglectful of our protectors across the river. Now we could easily restart the flow of foodstuffs. I expect a boat full of chickens and eggs could be put across in no time."
Valentine took out a piece of paper. "We'll need this every week." He passed the grocery list to Durand.
"Basic staples shouldn't be difficult. But chocolate?"
"Some of my soldiers have a sweet tooth, but I imagine most of it will end up in the stomachs of Evansville's beautiful young women."
"You drive a hard bargain, Major. Is this quite ethical? Extorting the people you promised to protect?"
"Evansville's delegates voted to support the armed resistance to the Kurian Order in men and materiel. I've most of the men I need. My material needs are small compared to the army they're trying to build outside the Kurian Triangle. You might consider yourself lucky."
"It appears we are bound to be symbionts, Major. I'll see to the deliveries of your foodstuffs."
"Then we shall be happy to remain in our comfortable and beautiful surroundings, with the congenial company of Evansville and Owensboro," Valentine said.
"I'm sure," Durand said. "I feel as though I've been played like a harp."
"If that column comes roaring south out of Bloomington, you'll be glad we stayed, or you might end up playing your own harp, sir."
He didn't want to go on Mrs. O'Coombe's expedition. He wished Moytana were still present; it would have been a much better assignment for a group of experienced Wolves.
It took a direct order from Lambert to get him to agree to do it.
They talked it over across her desk. Lambert had a policy that in private, when seated, you could talk to her without military formalities and treat her as a sounding board rather than a commander. It was a tradition Valentine had always followed with his own subordinates. Valentine remembered picking it up from Captain LeHavre. He wondered if Lambert had acquired it from Moira Styachowski.
Or did it come to Lambert from Valentine, in a roundabout way?
"Take whoever you like, just none of my captains," Lambert said, signing a blank ad hoc special duty personnel sheet and passing it to him.
Damn. So much for Patel. He could have ridden the whole way.
"I was thinking two Bears. Ali." As a Cat, Duvalier was considered a captain in rank, but Valentine suspected Lambert didn't need to hold on to her. "A Wolf scouting team."
"Medical staff?"
"They have enough to do here. Our patroness said she has her own medical team."
"Why don't you take Boelnitz too," Lambert said. "He's been making himself a nuisance here. I don't know if he's filed a story yet."
"Maybe he's working on a novel," Valentine said. He observed that Lambert's desk was as clean as an Archon's shaving mirror. Lambert managed to do a tremendous amount of work-she was in the process of reorganizing Fort Seng from the top down-but there was no evidence of it except for a three-drawer file cabinet and a brace of three-ring binders. Her clerk was always buzzing in and out like a pollen-laden honeybee, keeping the binders updated.
"I'd hate to be away if that column moves south," Valentine said.
"We'll just call you back," Lambert said. "Mrs. O'Coombe can delay them with a pillar of fire, and then spread her arms and part the Tennessee for us to get away."
Valentine couldn't say why he didn't like the idea of leaving Fort Seng. How do you put disquiet and restlessness into words? Normally he'd look forward to picking up his men and getting them on the road home-that sort of thing left a better aftertaste than surviving a battle.
One more thing bothered him. Red Dog had appeared a little nervous of late, always looking around with the whites of his eyes showing and hiding under tables and stonework. He'd even been dragged out from under the defunct hot tub in the estate house's garden gazebo.
Red Dog had been a tool of the Kurians in the retreat across Kentucky, when one Kurian had somehow linked through the dog's mind to Javelin's commanders at headquarters. If Red Dog was nervous, Valentine was nervous.
"Nice work at the dinner," Valentine said. "I think when Mrs. O'Coombe had to eat what we've been living on, it encouraged her to part with her gold."
"I just think she's a deeply decent person," Lambert said. "You don't often meet one of those."
"I met one back at the war college in Pine Bluff," Valentine said. "A little stick of a thing, always dotting i's and crossing t's."
"And I remember a shy young lieutenant who was always looking at his shoes and talking about the weather when he should have been asking me to a dance," Lambert said.
"We were both too busy, I think," Valentine said.
"And now we're in a fort where Southern Command rules on down-chain, up-chain, and cross-chain fraternization will be strictly observed. And not 'strictly' in the fun, blindfold and handcuffs sense, either."
"Dirty Bird Colonel," Valentine laughed. "Hands off."
"That goes for your captain, too, Major."
"Nilay Patel and I share a love that cannot-"
"You know who I mean. I don't want Boelnitz returning to his paper with an episode of Noonside Passions ready for action."
"Yes, ma'am. But rest easy: Ediyak didn't earn that rapid rise the hard way."
Duvalier waited a beat. "You're impossible, Valentine. Anyway, let's keep it zipped up for once, shall we?"
"As long as you restrain yourself with Boelnitz. You've made time for how many interviews?"
"I don't recall him being in the chain of command," Lambert said. "And if he were, I'd just have my clerk make a new page minus his name. But point taken, Valentine. Honestly, the only thing I want to get intimate with is that hot tub, if Prist and To yonikka get if functional again."