Civilian and military relations: Southern Command has a long history of "turnouts" to offer assistance to civilians in need. Their ethic might almost be described by the words "protect and serve."

Bases always serve as a temporary haven for the lost, dispossessed, or desperate. The men and women in uniform know they depend on the civilian populace for food and support. There are endless tales of whole camps going hungry to share their rations with hard-up locals and their children.

In return, civilians do what they can to provide for soldiers on the march, act as spare pairs of eyes and ears, and put in extra hours as poorly paid labor levies doing everything from laundry to garbage burial.

Especially in frontier areas, the soldiers are the only law and order around. While they can't treat criminals as combatants, they do have the power to hold someone until they can be turned over to civilian authorities-and the farther out the base, the longer the wait for a marshal or judge riding circuit to appear.

More important for this period in the turbulent history of the Middle Freestates, they can provide escort for vehicles, trains, and watercraft.

For all Valentine's reluctance to join Mrs. O'Coombe's famous and tragic trek to recover her son, the rest of Fort Seng worked like demons to prepare her group and vehicles for their journey. "Home by Christmas," the men said to each other, hoping that ten days on the road would suffice to recover the men Javelin had left scattered across Kentucky.

Each soldier could picture himself left behind somewhere. They provisioned and checked and armed the already well-equipped vehicles. For the average man in the ranks, letters from the president and connections in the general headquarters staff were remote facts, like the Hooked O-C straddling much of southern Oklahoma and northern Texas. What they understood was that the cots bolted to the inside of the trucks and vehicles would bring home those who'd been left behind-at least those who survived their injuries and the sweeps of Javelin's trail by bloodthirsty Moondaggers.

He met O'Coombe's team on a warm December day. Valentine hadn't seen vehicles like these since the drive on Dallas, and these specimens were in much better condition.

They sat there, not exactly gleaming in the sun but looking formidable in their grit and mud streaks.

Mrs. O'Coombe introduced him to her right-hand man, an ex-Bear named Stuck. Valentine hadn't met many ex-Bears. It seemed you were either a Bear or you were a deceased Bear; the ex-Bears he'd met were all so badly damaged they couldn't stand up or hold a gun.

Stuck had all his arms and legs and sensory organs intact. All that seemed to be missing was the bristling, grouchy Bear attitude. He was a big, meaty, soft-spoken man with a wide, angular mustache.

Stuck took Valentine down the line. He introduced Valentine to the wagon master, Habanero, a tough older man, thin and dry and leathery as a piece of jerky. He had a combination hearing aid-radio communicator that he used to issue orders to the drivers in the column.

"Ex-artillery in the Guards," Stuck explained as they left to inspect the vehicles. "Used to haul around guns. Deaf as a post but knows engines and suspensions and transmissions."

First, there was Rover, the command car. It was a high-clearance model that looked like something out of an African safari, right down to a heavy cage around the cabin. Extra jerricans of water and gasoline festooned the back and sides, spare tires were mounted on the front and hood, packs were tied to the cage, and up top a pair of radio antennae bent from the rear bumpers and were tied forward like scorpion tails. The command car had a turret ring-empty for now.

Stuck said there was an automatic grenade launcher and two bins of grenades in the bay.

Then there was the Bushmaster. The vehicle was a beautiful, rust-free armored personnel carrier, long bodied with a toothy grin up front thanks to heavy brush breakers. An armored cupola sat at the top, and firing slits lined the side. Valentine saw canvas-covered barrels sprouting like antennae.

"Teeth as false as Grandpa's," Stuck said.

Stuck glanced around before opening the armored car's back.

The vehicle was under command of a thickset homunculus. The man looked like he'd been folded and imperfectly unfolded again. Scarred, with a squint eye and an upturned mouth, his face looked as though someone had given his unformed face a vigorous stir with wooden spoon. Even his ears were uneven.

Valentine recognized him. "I know you, don't I?"

"Yes, sir, thanks, sir," he said as they shook hands. "March south to Dallas. We was just ahead of your Razorbacks in column with the old One hundred fifteenth. I drove a rocket sled."

A vicious-looking dog that seemed mostly Doberman sniffed Valentine from next to the driver.

Hazardous duty, since the rockets had a tendency to blow up in the crew's face. Southern Command had any number of improvised artillery units. Crude rocketry was popular because the howling, crashing projectiles unnerved even the most dug-in Grogs. Someone said it was because the rockets made a noise that sounded like the Grog word for lightning strikes.

Valentine suspected it might be the other way around-that the Grogs started calling lightning strikes after the sound effect from the rockets.

"Dover-no, Drake. Your crew pulled my command car out of a mud hole outside Sulphur Springs."

"That we did, sir."

"Serves me right for taking the wheel. I never was much of a driver."

Stuck spoke up. "Drake here is on her ladyship's-Well, we call them the ranch's sheriff's deputies. He keeps law and order among the hands and their families."

"Not popular work, sir, but it pays well," Drake said.

"Quite a dog you have there," Valentine said, looking at the beast's scarred muscle. "Can I pet it?"

"You can, sir, but I wouldn't advise it. I don't even pet him."

"How's she drive, Drake?" Valentine asked.

"Like steering a pig with handlebars shoved up its ass, but it'll get there and back," Drake said.

"Riot control platform, isn't it? I've seen these in Illinois."

"That it is, sir."

Stuck opened the small access hatch in the larger back door. "We've got it rigged out to carry injured in comfort."

The tunnellike inside was full of twelve folding bunks attached to the walls of the vehicle, as well as seats along the walls: cushioned lockers. The bunks blocked some of the firing slits but not the cupola.

The machine guns looked more frightening from the outside, thanks to the big barrels. Inside, they were revealed to be assault rifles rigged out with box magazines. Still, firepower is firepower.

"What's up top? A broomstick?" Valentine asked.

"Oh, the gun's real enough," Drake said. "Twenty millimeters of lead that'll turn any breathing target into dog meat, from a Reaper to a legworm."

"Dogs know better than to eat off a dead Reaper," Stuck said.

Next in line was the Chuckwagon. It was a standard military truck with an armored-up cabin, a mounted machine gun at the back, and a twin-tank trailer dragging behind. The paint job and new tires made Javelin's venerable and road-worn Comanche look like the tired old army mule she was. The Chuckwagon towed a trailer with two big black tanks on it.

The hood was up on this one, and a plump behind wiggled as a woman in overalls inspected the engine.

"Ma," Stuck shouted. "There's someone needs meeting."

"Busy here."

"You're never that busy. Come out of there."

A plump, graying woman hopped down from the front bumper. She wiped her hands and gave a wave Valentine decided to interpret as friendly gesture instead of sloppy contempt.

"This is Ma, one of the ranch's roving cooks. Ex-Southern Command and ex-Logistics Commando, she's our expert on Tennessee and Kentucky."

"Really only know it to the Tennessee River, but from the Goat Shack to Church Dump, I've been up and down her. My specialty was likker, of course, but I traded in parts and guns too."

Valentine nodded. "I'll put you to work on this trip. We need medical supplies and-"

" 'Scuse me, sir, but I don't know medicinals; never had much of a mind for 'em. Too easy to get stock-shuffled or wheezed or lose it all in the old Bayou flush. Easier to spot a true rifle barrel or bourbon from busthead."

Finally, there was the Boneyard, a military ambulance truck. It had the same basic frame as the Rover, with a longer back end and higher payload bay. A bright red cross against a white background decorated its hood and flanks.

"Doc and the nurse are helping out in your hospital," Stuck said. "The driver's name is Big Gustauf, old Missouri German. My guess is he's eating. Never was a Bear as far as I know, but he's got the appetite of one."

Valentine paced back up the column and found the matriarch who'd assembled all this to bring her boy home. "I'd like to congratulate you on your column, Mrs. O'Coombe."

She offered a friendly tip of the head in return for the compliment. "When we were young my husband and I ranched right into Nomansland," she said. "Hard years. Dangerous years. I knew what to bring on such an expedition."

"I hope your care obtains results."

"That's in God's hands, Mister Valentine. All I can do is my best."

"God usually fights on the side of the better prepared," Valentine said.

"I don't care for your sense of humor, Mister Valentine, but as an experienced soldier I suspect you've earned your cynicism."

"Your son didn't serve under the name O'Coombe, did he?" Valentine asked.

"No, he didn't want to be pestered for money or jobs for relatives," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "He served under my maiden name, Rockaway. Sweet of him, was it not, Mister Valentine?"

Valentine made a note of that. He'd have to check the roll call records and medical lists to learn which legworm clan ended up taking care of him. They had left only a handful of wounded behind who seemed likely to survive, and even then only in areas controlled by their allied clans.

"How much do you know about Kentucky?" Valentine asked.

"My sources say there are many off-road trails thanks to the feeding habits of the legworms. I wanted vehicles that could use poorly serviced roads and even those trails."

"How did you get vehicles like these together?" Valentine asked. When he'd first seen her, he wondered if she'd hired mer cenaries. They knew about moving off-road with a column of vehicles. They had plenty of tow chains and cables ready to offer assistance to the next in line or the previous. He noticed the various trucks' engines had cloth cowlings stitched and strapped over them. The cloth had an interesting sheen. Valentine suspected it was Reaper cloth from their robes.

"Get them? Sir, they're from our ranch. We control property that covers hundreds of square miles. The ranch wouldn't function without range-capable wheels."

"Where do you ride?" Valentine asked Stuck.

He lifted a muscular, hairy arm and pointed to a pair of heavy motorcycles with leather saddlebags and rifle clips on the handlebars. "Me and Longshot are the bikers."

"Where's Longshot?" Valentine asked.

"Up here," he heard a female voice say.

Valentine looked up and saw a woman in old-fashioned biker leathers sunning herself atop the Bushmaster. She zipped up her jacket. "I'm the scout sniper."

She had strong Indian features, dirtied from riding her motorcycle. There was a clean pattern around where she presumably wore her goggles. You wouldn't necessarily call her "pretty" or "beautiful." Striking was more like it, with strong features and long black hair that put Valentine's to shame. "Comanche?" Valentine asked.

"Hell if I know. Tucumcari mutt: little bit of everything. You?"

"North Minnesota mix," Valentine said.

"Hey, want to see me feed these beasts?" Stuck asked.

Valentine nodded.

He walked over to the Chuckwagon's trailer. It had big twin tanks that Valentine had assumed were powered by gasoline or diesel or vegetable oil.

Longshot hopped down, and Stuck opened a latched cooler strapped on a little platform between the tanks. Two buckets rested inside. A ripe fecal smell came out, so powerful it almost billowed. Valentine watched Stuck and Longshot, apparently oblivious to the odor, each lift a bucket and pour it into one of the tanks.

"Everyone pisses and shits in the old honeybucket," Stuck said. "Food scraps are good too, especially carbohydrates."

Stuck took a leather lanyard from around his neck. Valentine noticed a Reaper thumb on it, interesting only thanks to an overlarge, pointed nail capping it. The lanyard also had two keys. Stuck used one of them to open a locked box on the tanker trailer and took out a plastic jug of blue-white crystals with a metal scoop sunk in.

"This is my job. I check the test strips and seed."

He extracted a long dipstick from the fragrant tank, wiped it on a piece of paper about the size of a Band-Aid, carefully placed the test paper in a clip, and held it up to a color-coded, plasticized sheet. Nodding, he made a notation on a clipboard that rested on the box's hinged cover.

"The Kurians guard this stuff like the Reaper cloth factories," Stuck said, leveling and dumping three roughly teaspoon-sized portions of the granules into the larger scoop.

"I've seen those factories," Valentine said. "Or one of them, anyway, in the Southwest."

"This tank's just about done," Stuck said. "Takes about thirty-six hours to do three hundred fifty gallons. Then we refill off this tank while we fill the other with waste, or pig corn, or melon rinds, or what have you. In a pinch, these engines can run off of kerosene, regular diesel, or even waste cooking oil, but this stuff's easier on 'em, and Habby doesn't bitch about changing gunked-up fuel filters."

Valentine watched him dump the crystals into the conversion tank.

"Always makes me wish I'd learned more science and chemistry and stuff, instead of just getting good at taking Reapers and Grogs apart," Stuck said.

"So where did you get that stuff? I've never even heard of it," Valentine said.

"The Great Dame is friends with some big bug in Santa Fe. He's playing both sides of the border, scared there'll be a reckoning if Denver Freehold and Southern Command pair up and hit the Southwest. He's a honcho in transport. Keeps trying to propose, but she shoots him down."

"What's your story, Stuck?"

"I was never cut out for military life, even as a Bear. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. Drove me crazy. Stand here, look there, turn your head and cough, bend over and pull 'em apart. Not my lifestyle at all. Mrs. O'Coombe keeps me busy out in the open where I'm alone, riding from post to post checking security. No one to piss me off that way."

He looked up from the mix. "Longshot, get over here," Stuck said. "What do you think of this color?"

"More water," she said.

"That's what I thought. Thanks."

She hopped down and bumped into Valentine.

Valentine found himself looking into the reversed-raccoon eyes of the girl. The face mask had left an odd pattern on her features. Dusky and dark, she reminded him a little of Malita, save that Longshot was a good deal shorter.

"You must love your bike," Valentine said.

"I was out scouting east of here this morning," she said.

"Longshot gets bored easily," Stuck said, watching her grab a washcloth and towel and head for the camp's showers. "She's a retired guerrilla from down Mexico way. Met her during Operation Snakebite. She's ridden at my side ever since."

"Full partnership, or limited liability?" Valentine asked.

"Nah. A Reaper yanked my gear off when I was captured in 'sixty-six. Didn't hurt as much as you'd think, but about all she does is keep me warm."

Valentine had a hard decision to make, and after consulting Lambert, he presented it to Mrs. O'Coombe the night before their scheduled departure.

"I'm afraid I'll have to commandeer your doctor for Fort Seng, Mrs. O'Coombe. Our remaining doctor is exhausted. He's worked seven days a week for over a month now."

"And just who do you suggest will look after my son or any wounded we recover?"

"We'll take our nurse. If they've lived this long, I doubt they'll need any more care than that."

"I'm sorry, Mister Valentine, but this is one time I must tell you no. I don't like the idea of traveling with wounded without a doctor."

"A nurse should be sufficient for travel," Valentine said. And that was that. He had rank, after all, and it would take months for Mrs O'Coombe to get her friends to exert their influence for or against him. And by then he hoped to have her son back.

Valentine passed the word and names for an officers' call and then arranged for food to be sent up to what was now being called the map room. Next to the communications center, it had formerly been a game room. Lambert had altered it so it featured everything from a large-scale map of Kentucky to an updated map of the Evansville area, river charts, and even a globe Lambert had colored with crayons to reflect resistance hot spots against the Kurian Order.

Lambert was a whirlwind. Somebody had a screw loose if they had just cast this woman aside as part of a political housecleaning.

Gamecock was there representing his Bears, Frat for the Wolves, and Duvalier just because she saw the others gathering and wanted to grab a comfortable armchair. Patel was present, of course, and Colonel Bloom's new executive officer, a Guard lieutenant who'd distinguished himself at the bridge where Bloom had been wounded on Javelin's retreat.

"You looking forward to your trip, suh?" Gamecock said.

"We won't be touring. I don't care how well equipped and crewed she is. If she's recovering Southern Command forces, we need Southern Command along. I think she's sailing into trouble."

"Isn't she a bit old for you, Val?" Duvalier asked.

"You can come along and keep an eye on me," Valentine said. He hadn't yet told her that he wanted her to as part of his command.

"No walking, I hope," Duvalier said, with a light laugh that did Valentine's spirits good. She'd been so moody lately. "Twice back and forth across the state is enough for me."

"Who would you like to bring, sir?" Patel asked.

Valentine looked at his notes. "I'd like to take two Bears-Chieftain and Silvertip-four Wolves, and a nurse."

"Who's bringing the beer and barbecue?" Duvalier asked.

"Do I have to remind you that this is an officers' call, Captain?" Valentine said, using her titular rank.

"Then I'll join the tour," Duvalier said.

"Call it a survey, call it a reconnaissance in force, call it a recovery operation. Call it anything you like. It's my intent to have a mobile force of some strength who knows how to deal with Reapers. With the legworm clans encamped for the winter, they'll be so many sitting ducks for whatever vengeance Missionary Doughnut is talking about."

"Goodwill tour it is," Lambert said. "Our friend out front has never made much sense. Seeing some Southern Command forces in Kentucky's heartland will do the Cause some good, in any case. And let's not forget our outgoing president's letter. If I go myself, I'll consider my duties discharged."

"Can I go with my Wolves, sir?" Frat asked. "I'd like to see a little more of Kentucky."

Valentine looked at Lambert, who nodded. "Glad to have you along, Lieutenant. Thanks for volunteering. You'll save me a lot of legwork."

Duvalier snickered at that. Valentine wondered why she was so merry this morning.

Alarm.

Valentine came out of his sleep, heart pounding, a terrible sense that death stood over his pillow.

The Valentingle.

He hadn't called it that at first. If he thought about it, he might have remembered that he once called it "the willies" or "the creeps." The name came from his companions in the Wolves, who learned to trust his judgment about when they were safe to take refuge for the night-what hamlets might be visited quietly, whispering to the inhabitants through back porch screens.

Whether it was sixth sense, the kind of natural instinct that makes a rabbit freeze when a hawk's shadow passes overhead, or some strange gift of the Lifeweavers, Valentine couldn't say.

But he did trust it. A Reaper was prowling.

Valentine slipped into his trousers and boots almost at the same time, tying them in the dark.

He grabbed the pistol belt hanging on his bedpost. Next came the rifle. Valentine checked his ammunition by touch, inserted a magazine, chambered a shot. He slung on his sword. Oddly enough, the blade was more comforting than even the guns. There was something atavistic in having a good handle grip at the end of an implement you can wave about.

Duvalier would say that it wasn't atavism. . . .

Valentine hand-cranked his field phone. "Operations."

"Operations," they answered.

"This is Major Valentine. Any alerts?" He swapped hands with the receiver so he could pull on his uniform shirt.

"Negative, Major Valentine."

"Well, I'm calling one. Pass the word: alert alert alert. I want to hear from the sentries by the time I get down there."

The communications center lay snug in the basement.

Valentine looked out the window. The alarm klaxon went off, sending black birds flapping off the garbage dump and a raccoon scuttling. Emergency lights tripped on in quick succession. They were perhaps not as bright as Southern Command's sodium lights that illuminated woods on the other side of the parking lot, but they had precise coverage that left no concealing shadows on the concentric rings of decorative patio stones. The old estate house had quite a security system.

A shadow whipped across the lawn, bounding like a decidedly unjolly black giant, covering three meters at a stride, a dark cloak flapping like wings.

Reaper!

Could it be their old friend from the Ohio? The clothing was different, it seemed. The other one hadn't even had a cloak and cowl when he'd last seen it, and it seemed doubtful that a wild Reaper could attain one.

Valentine, in more of a hurry to throw off the shutters and open the sash than ever any St. Nick-chasing father, fumbled with the window. He knocked it open at the cost of a painful pinch to his finger when the rising pane caught him. He swung his legs out and sat briefly on the sill like a child working up the nerve to jump, rifle heavy across his thighs.

Valentine had no need to nerve himself, but he did want one last look at the Reaper's track from the advantage of height. Would it angle toward the soldiers' tents or the munitions dugout? Kurians had been known to sacrifice a Reaper, if it meant blowing up half a base.

It did neither. It headed straight for the woods south, toward the river.

Valentine jumped, felt the cool night air rush up his trouser legs. He landed on his good leg, cradling the rifle carefully against his midsection as though it were a baby.

With that he was off, settling into his old Wolf lope, the bad leg giving him the port-and-starboard sway of a tipsy sailor or perhaps an off-balance metronome.

He cast about with a coonhound's frantic anxiety at the edge of the woods. The tracks were there, hard to see in the deep night of the woods. Only the Reaper's furious pace allowed him to find the tracks at all.

Valentine searched the woods with his hard ears. The wind was smothering whatever sounds the Reaper made-if it was in fact running and not just trying to lure him into the woods.

Deciding on handiness over firepower, Valentine slung his rifle. Drawing his pistol and sword, he tucked the blade under his arm and began stalking into the woods with the pistol in a solid, two-handed "teacup" grip, searching more with his ears than his eyes.

His footfalls sounded like land mines detonating to his nervous ears. Of course, anyone venturing into thick woods after a Reaper would be a madman not to be nervous.

Motion out of the corner of his eye-

Valentine swung, the red fluorescent dot on the pistol's foresight tracking through wooded night to . . .

A chittering raccoon, blinking at him from a tree branch.

Valentine lowered the pistol barrel.

In a cheap horror movie, this would be the moment for the Reaper to come up behind. Valentine turned a full circle. The woods were empty.

A half hour later he'd traced the tracks to an old road running along the bank of the Ohio River above the flood line. Above what was technically the flood line, that is; the road showed evidence of having survived at least one flood. The Reaper could have continued on to the river or headed down the road in either direction. It might even have stashed a bicycle somewhere-a Reaper could reach a fantastic speed on two wheels.

Now all that was left was the grim accounting. Perhaps the Reaper had grabbed some poor sentry and terrified him into giving an estimate of their reduced strength once Bloom had departed. There'd be a name to report missing and fear in the camp.

Such a loss would be worse to take than an ambush or a fire-fight, where at least the men could feel like they shot back. A single man's death after so many weeks without a casualty worse than a broken ankle would loom all the larger over dinner conversation.

It took three hours for word to come back to the alarmed operations center: all in-fort personnel present and accounted for, from the most distant sentry to the cook stocking potatoes in one of the basements against the winter.

One other person had caught a good look at the Reaper, and Valentine and Lambert heard the story from a shaken-up mechanic named Cleland, brought in by Frat, who'd found him in crouched on the unpleasant side of a board over a pit toilet and helped him out. Cleland was up late winterproofing a pump, went to the cookhouse for a hot sandwich and coffee, and saw a tall figure standing silhouetted against one of the security lights.

"Just looked like he was trying to keep warm, wrapped up. Didn't notice how tall he was right off as I was headin' up the hill, you know."

Valentine's nose noted that Cleland hadn't done the most thorough job cleaning up before giving his report.

"Standing in the light?" Valentine asked.

"Turned toward it, more like. I saw something in its hand."

"He needed light," Lambert said, looking at Valentine. "It's a dark night."

"Could you see what it was?" Valentine asked.

"Piece of paper, maybe. It shoved whatever it was into its cloak when it heard me. Damn thing looked right at me. Yellow eyes. Nobody ever told me how bright they were. A man doesn't forget that. Don't think I ever will."

"What then?"

"I ran like the devil. Or like the devil was after me, more like. Dodged through the transport-lot and jumped into the old latrine."

"You can go, Cleland," Lambert said. "Get a drink if you like at the hospital. Medicinal bourbon."

"What do you think?" Lambert asked Valentine after Cleland left.

Valentine looked at the alert report. "They found a garbage can overturned by the cookhouse. Could be raccoons again."

"A Reaper snuck onto the base to go through our garbage? Not even the garbage at headquarters; a can full of greasy wax paper and coffee grounds?"

Valentine had the same uncomfortable feeling he'd had on his first trip into the Kurian Zone, when he learned that one of his charges had been leaving information for Kurian trackers.

"A message drop," Valentine said.

"Possibly. People go to the canteen at all hours. It's a good spot. Almost everyone's there once a day."

"That means-it could be anyone."

"In a camp full of Quislings," Lambert said.

"Not anymore . . . at least I hope not," Valentine said.

Lambert lowered her voice. "They turned on their superiors once. We have to consider the possibility that they'll do it again. How many of them are above going for a brass ring and an estate in Iowa?"

"Will you take tea with me, Mister Valentine?" Mrs. O'Coombe asked as Valentine passed through her mini-camp on a blustery afternoon with blown leaves rattling against the Rover's paneling. "You look chilled."

Valentine had no need to be anywhere. The column was waiting for a report from the Kentuckians about the status of their wounded left behind, not to mention offical permission to move through the new Freehold with an armed column. "Yes. I would like to talk to you."

"Tea elevates any social interaction," she said, placing an elegant copper pot on the electrical camp stove running off the generator. Valentine admired the long spout and handle. The decorative top had elaborate etching.

She opened a tin and spooned some black leaves into the holder at the top of the pot.

"You'll forgive me-I make some ceremony of this," she said. "Teatime was always my time on the ranch. Even my husband, God rest him, didn't disturb me if I closed my library door."

She poured.

"Tea is the smell of civilization, don't you think?"

Valentine sniffed, briefly bringing the old mental focus to his nostrils. Not a strong scent, even to his old Wolf nose. Just wet leaves and hot water.

"Not much of a smell." Valentine said. "I've heard people put, er, that oil, berge-"

"Bergamot," she corrected. "Yes, Earl Grey. A classic. Not that hard to make. Are you a fan of teas, Mister Valentine?"

"I used to drink some good stuff in New Orleans. Lots of trade there. I had sage tea in Texas. I trade my whiskey and tobacco rations for tea, the Southern Command stuff."

"Dusty mud," she said. "These are real leaves, from China and India."

They drank. Valentine sniffed again, letting his Wolf's nose explore the pleasantly delicate aroma.

"No, it's not a strong smell," she said. "But then civilization isn't a strong presence either. The whole idea is the sublimation of coarser practices. Yet when it disappears-just as when your cup is empty-you'll notice its absence more. Receiving mail is an ordinary experience until it doesn't show up for a week; then its interruption is keenly felt."

"We'd like nothing better than weekly mail out here."

"How is the bond tour going, Mister Valentine?"

"Poorly, I'm afraid. These Kentuckians keep their gold close. We've had some donations of whiskey, boots, and craft goods that we might be able to trade for butter and eggs, if we come across a farm wife in a patriotic mood. You'll see that on the road."

"I am anxious to get started. I wish to see my son again."

"You know, there's a chance we may never find Corporal O'Coombe." Valentine thought it better not to list all the reasons-sepsis, an illness, discovery by Moondaggers sweeping across Javelin's line of retreat looking for those left behind to take and torture . . .

"I've prepared myself for that eventuality, Mister Valentine."

"You seem like a woman used to getting her way. I hope we'll be able to complete our sweep and bring back a few more of Southern Command's own."

"My staff and their vehicles are entirely at your disposal, sir. Our agreement still stands. I am allowed to search for my son; you are allowed to bring back any you have left behind. If we cannot find news of my son, all I ask is a finding that he's been killed in action so that his memory may be honored accordingly."

Valentine would be glad to have Mrs. O'Coombe's crew out of his graying hair. Her precious doctor was always asking for better water, more sanitizer, more hands to pick up shifts changing bandages and bedding.

In the end, Mrs. O'Coombe's doctor came along after all, but only after the remaining Javelin doctor personally spoke to Valentine and explained that having a doctor along might mean the difference between a continued recovery and a setback as they moved the wounded.

Though Valentine wondered how much of a specialist Mrs. O'Coombe's doctor really was. He went by the unimaginative moniker of "Doc" and seemed more like a country sawbones than an expert in difficult recoveries, though his nurse, a thick-fingered Louisiana-born woman named Sahita, had the serene, slightly blank look of an experienced caregiver. Sahita looked at the entire world through narrowed eyes and seemed naturally immune to chitchat, responding only in monosyllables if at all possible to any conversational efforts.

Valentine and Frat did a final inspection before boarding the vehicles. Food, clothing, gear, guns. Everyone a first-aid kit, everyone a tool for finding food or making shelter.

Frat had a big shoulder bag over his arm as well, stuffed with maps and battered old guidebooks to Kentucky. Valentine was rather touched by the imitation, if that's what it was rather than coincidence.

Though Frat had avoided choosing a diaper bag for his miscellany.

Inspection complete and vehicles pronounced ready, they boarded their transport and put the engines in gear. Despite his misgivings, Valentine was relieved to be on the move at last. The sooner they started, the sooner he could return.

The vehicles rolled out of Fort Seng in column order the next morning.

The motorcycles blatted out first, followed by Rover with Valentine riding shotgun and Mrs. O'Coombe in back, looking for all the world like an annoying mother-in-law in a comedy of the previous century. Duvalier slumped next to her, head pillowed on her rolled-up overcoat, already settling in to sleep. Bee had reluctantly taken a place in the Bushmaster behind but soon amused herself by unloading magazines, cleaning the bullets, and reloading the magazines.

The rest of the camouflage-painted parade followed.

Valentine had a big, comfortable seat, and there was a clip for his rifle in the dashboard. A clever little map or reading light could be bent down from the ceiling, and there was even a little case in the seat for a pair of binoculars or maps or sandwiches or books or whatever else you might desire on a long trip.

For such a wretched, ungoverned, miserable place, the Old World sure put a lot of thought into conveniences, Valentine thought ironically. Of course a New Universal churchman would counter that the conveniences applied to only one half of one percent of the world's population.

Habanero the wagon master controlled the wheel and gearshift in Rover, his earpiece in and a little control pad on his thigh that allowed him to radio the other drivers. He gave Valentine an extension so he could plug in to listen-and to speak if he had to.

In the cabin of Rover, Valentine felt his usual isolation from the outside world when riding in a vehicle. While he enjoyed the comfort and convenience, you lost much of the appreciation of landscape and distance, proper humility before wind and weather.

Of course he couldn't overlook the advantages an engine and wheels gave when you had two hundred miles to cover in search of your scattered wounded. The pleasant, ten-minute walk to the gate took but a moment in Rover.

"Slow here," Valentine said as they approached the gate and the doughnut-selling missionary.

"You need to install a drive-up window," Valentine yelled from his rolled-down window. He'd been saving up the jibe all morning.

"Wise of you," the missionary said. "Oh, it's you, my brother and friend. I'm glad you've decided to bow to the inevitable. But time runs short! Hurry! Go like Lot and his wife and do not look back."

"Sorry to disappoint," Valentine said, getting out to claim a final doughnut for the road. "We're not leaving. We're just off to do a little touring. Would you recommend the Corvette museum in Bowling Green or the Lincoln birthplace?" Behind, he heard Duvalier get out, yawning.

"I weep for you," the missionary said. "You're all dead, you know. A reckoning is coming. Weeds have sprouted in Kentucky's green gardens, and it is time for the gardeners to replant. But first, the scythes and the cutters. Scythes and cutters, I say."

"They better be sharper than you," Duvalier said. "It's a sad-"

"Wait a moment," Valentine said. "What's this about, you? What scythes, what cutters? I don't believe in visions unless they're specific."

"Oh, it's coming, sir. Sooner than anyone expects." He looked up and down the column. "You have one final chance to repent. Turn west and follow the sun. If you turn east, by your actions is Kentucky doomed. You sow the seeds of your own destruction."

"Shut up, you," one of the Wolves yelled from the Chuckwagon.

"Want us to gag him with his own pastries?" Frat called to Valentine.

Valentine held up his hand, halting the Wolves in their tracks. "How does a man like you come by such intelligence?"

The doughnut missionary grinned. He passed a finger down his nose. "I prayed and I learned over many long years. But I too had faults: pride and greed and lust. I was cast out to make my way among the heathen. But they did not take all my gifts. I still have my vision."

"False prophecy. I've seen no portents. Red sunsets before the Kurians ever move, my mother always told me. Long red sunsets and dawns, with blood on the clouds."

"Whispers on the wind, you poor soul. That's how I know. Whispers on the wind."

"Would that the wind were a little clearer."

"I hear voices, you poor lost soul. See visions. Visions! Oh, they break the heart."

"I'm sorry you're so burdened. How long have you carried that cross?"

"Had them since I was little. Born in a Church hall, the New England Archon's own retreat it was, but a grim place and nothing but lessons from the time I took my first step. That's no way to serve the gods, no sir, not for me. I ran away as soon as I could climb over the wall and never looked back. Took up with some relief and reassurance workers and then signed up for the missions, first in group and then alone and with only faith and my poor wit. Been warning souls away from folly and death ever since."

Valentine took out his pocket notebook. "How long before our day of judgment? I'd like to make some preparations. Will, disposition of assets, and so forth."

"That I can't tell you. Soon, though, sir. Soon. This will be a cruel winter, and many won't live to see the spring. I say again: Repent now and leave Kentucky!"

Valentine decided he'd heard all the detail he'd ever hear from the doughnut missionary, and he climbed back into Rover.

"Why do you let that thing carry on so, Mister Valentine?" Mrs. O'Coombe said. "It insults every faculty of taste and reason."

"The men like his doughnuts," Valentine said. A few had hopped out of the column to claim theirs. Valentine saw Frat hurl his into the man's face as they pulled away.

Mrs. O'Coombe snorted. "I heard a little of him on the way in. I wouldn't give one of his clots of dough to one of my dogs. Sugar and lard. Mark my words, Mister Valentine, he's trying to clog their arteries or give your men diabetes. Now, tell me, should we turn east immediately, or should we go south and pick up the old parkway?"