The wilderness of eastern Kentucky, New Years Eve, the Fifty-fourth Year of the Kurian Order: With the sun an orange-and-purple bruise along the western skyline, harpy country wakes up.

There's something odd about this particular Grog territory. Bird and animal life seems more furtive, the insects tougher and more numerous-even in the winter chill big black flies drone by like thrown pebbles. The kudzu on old utility poles and lines grows thick on every sunstruck prominence in a twisted-tendril game of king of the hill that dares you to contest its ownership. Thicker stands of wood have a bat-cave smell with nothing thriving in the shade but thistle and thorn and tree-hugging fungus looking like suppurating wounds.

The few highways cutting through harpy lands are barely open, the vegetation kept back only by big machines clawing through the potholed roads. The devastation from the New Madrid quake has never been repaired. Whole communities are nothing but heaps of rubble with a vine-covered wall or chimney still standing.

* * * *

Binoculars just made the warehouse and truck yard look worse. In the dark from a distance, Valentine could see the armory was only three buildings, two of cinder block linked by a nicer brick office forming an uneven U lit at the doors by tired bulbs that looked like they wanted to surrender to the night. With the aid of the binoculars, Valentine's night eyes picked out peeling paint, the tires and blocks holding down plastic sheeting on the roofs, and the plywood nailed over the windows.

Patel and Hoboken, the youngest of Patel's Shepherds, looked at it with him.

The ad-hoc raid had come together as though it were a natural, expected event, like a birth.

When Valentine proposed the operation at a scheduled meeting, he met initial resistance in the form of a frown and a shake of Colonel Seng's head, but Moytana and the Bear lieutenant Gamecock both came to assistance, claiming that their men were fretting, wanting either leave or an operation. They could have both by joining in the raid, as Hunters back from the KZ traditionally enjoyed at least a three-day pass, if not a twenty-one, in Southern Command's vernacular.

Valentine argued that the rest of the brigade might be reassured by a quick successful strike into the Kurian Zone and a return across the Mississippi, and Seng gave his approval.

Valentine turned in his written plan that very evening and started on the orders for the company the next morning.

As Rand organized transport, Valentine received an unexpected visitor. The Bear lieutenant knocked on the open door of the command shack. Dust fell from the ceiling and the spiders hunkered down in their webs.

"Morning, Major," Gamecock said. He had thick hair on the arms projecting from his sleeveless shirt, and wore the first legworm leather pants Valentine had seen since he lost his rig in Pacific Command. Most officers in Southern Command knew better than to lecture Bears on proper attire. He had an ear of roasted corn in hand and a flour sack over his shoulder. He gave Valentine a casual salute with the roasted ear as he looked around the command shack. "Okay to talk about the op?"

"In here," Valentine said. The command shack had a divider now, so Valentine enjoyed the luxury and status of a knothole-windowed office.

They went into the back room.

Gamecock finished off the roasted ear and tossed it in the waste-basket. The basket wobbled briefly. "Sorry about that, suh. Had to eat breakfast on foot this morning. This scheme of yours: You're going to be a Quisling Grog officer."

"Yes," Valentine said.

He tossed the flour sack on Valentine's table-desk. "I was going to trade this to a sorry excuse of a Guard captain for a case of Canadian scotch, but it's turning my stomach to see the guy who held at Big Rock walking around with an old single shot militia rifle.

"Go on, suh," Gamecock said. "Got it off a Quisling lieutenant colonel with matching tooling on his belt, hat, and boots. Even dead, he looked like a show-night fag but he knew his hardware."

Valentine extracted a gleaming submachine gun and a screw-on tube as long as the gun itself. It had odd lines; the barrel was pitched on a bias different from the frame. He picked it up and extended the handle just under the muzzle.

"That's an Atlanta buzzsaw," Gamecock said. "Model 18 Select entry model. Limited production run, elites and officers only. That cockeyed barrel's there for a purpose. The bolt's at an angle so recoil keeps the muzzle from climbing off target. Pretty accurate one handed, even on full auto. No selector switch-you can tap them out single shot with light pulls. Goin'

over to full auto, you just pull the trigger all the way. She'll group under a meter at a hundred paces. That silencer there is something I rigged."

Valentine looked at the magazines-two short and four long-and the twenty- and forty-round boxes. "Nine millimeter Parabellum."

"I know-a little light for stopping a Reaper in full charge," Gamecock said. "I threw in some boxes of silverpoints. Team Fumarole's had good results with them. They don't flatten out against Reaper cloth so much."

"I don't suppose you've got any Quickwood bullets."

"We got a box of 7.62 for the whole team, suh. One lousy box. Production problems. Wish they'd tell me where the trees were. I'd make myself some friggin' stakes."

"I'll show you one personally when we get back. Assuming some farmer hasn't cut it down for tomato stakes. By the way, where's the accent from?"

"South Carolina born. First name's Scottie, suh."

"Val will do from now on, when things are less formal. Grateful to you, Scottie."

"Grateful to you, suh. My boys are ready to kill each other. Only three things will keep a Bear quiet if there's no fighting going on: sleeping, eating, and . . . well-"

"Screwing," Valentine finished. "Lieutenant Nail in the old Razors put it a little more colorfully."

"Any case, suh, we've all put on ten pounds and everyone's caught up on sack time. I got all I can do to keep the women and chickens round here safe."

* * * *

Pizzaro at Rally Base greased the entire operation, even setting up an escort by a contingent of the "Skeeter Fleet," Southern Command's own force of low-draft vessels that were employed in riverine combat. The SF's airboats and fast motorboats weren't a match for the bigger, cannon-mounted craft of the Quisling river patrol, but they could cause enough trouble somewhere else to draw off the forces guarding one set of loops in the twisting Mississippi.

Valentine practiced entry drills with the Bears and ran short patrols with the Wolves, always taking a few of the company with him. It did a little for their confidence and it was good to see the men getting over some of their wariness when it came to the Bears. Most of the men thought Bears would just as soon kill a man as look at him, and the day might come when members of the company would have to guide a Bear team to a target.

Valentine expensed three hundred rounds training with the new gun while Bee worked on sawing off the barrels and smoothing down the stocks on the old shotguns she'd been converting to pistol grip. Valentine practiced changing magazines until he could do it without thinking about it. Then he cleaned the weapon and test fired a couple more rounds to make sure he didn't foul something up.

The Bears and most of the Wolves were employed in a strike at a collection of river patrol docks and blockhouses on Island Ten, while a short platoon of Valentine's company, escorted by a striking team of Wolves, made for the armory. The rest of his command remained at either side of the Mississippi under Rand, blowing up rubber boats and improvised rafts called "Ping-Pong ball miracles" in preparation for the trip back.

The trip across and the movement to the armory had gone off well, with the Skeeter Fleet bringing them across just before dawn on New Year's Eve, their camouflage-painted twin-outboard boats growling into the muddy Mississippi waters like dogs giving the angry warning that comes before the leap.

Valentine's picked team of twenty, Bee, and the Wolves paralleled the east-west highway heading into Mayfield, Kentucky, and then turned north into the Grog country, the Wolves out front and behind and flanking, continually restoring contact like sheepdogs with a flock.

They took advantage of a chilling rain to make good time down the road, which had deteriorated into a rutted trail. According to Rollings no one "who counted" lived up this way, in a region of low, sandy hills and scrub forest. River patrol supply trucks and Grog recruiters were all that used the roads meeting at the armory.

They rested, ate, and observed while the skies cleared and the sun went down. Valentine taped a thin commando dagger to his forearm-it never hurt to have something in reserve.

After giving everyone inside a chance to get deep into REM sleep, Valentine decided the time was ripe.

He, Rollings, and Bee approached from the east down the tree-throttled road, three Wolves trailing through cover behind. Valentine carried his 18 Select in a battered leather courier pouch filled with a meaningless assortment of captured paperwork. Valentine smelled harpies on the cold wind blowing down from the northwest.

As they approached the gate, he slipped on the brass ring he'd won in Seattle. He didn't like to wear the thing.

"No Kurian towers around here, right?" he asked Rollings, nervous as he felt the warmth of the ring when it contacted his skin.

The armory had old-fashioned bars around it, linking cement columns. Valentine wondered if something more ostentatious had once stood on the other side of the fence. This was like garlanding a turd.

"No, sir. Well, none that I know about. Never went into the harpy woods, though, or met any Reapers on the river road that way. Is that what I think it is, Major?"

"Yes."

"You take it off a-"

"It's a long story."

A dog barked as they approached, a mud-splattered, hungry-looking thing that seemed to be a mix of a German shepherd and a long-haired camel. It jumped atop its shelter to better sound the alarm.

Behind its house was a line of trucks and a wrecker. The trucks looked rusted and worn, though they had hedge-cutting blades fixed below the front bumper and iron bars welded across the windshield and windows.

Valentine approached the buzz box on the post outside the gate and opened the dirty glass door covering the buttons.

"Anything here indicate there's more men here than usual?" Valentine asked.

"No, sir."

Rollings nodded and Valentine hit the button marked "call."

When Valentine didn't get a response in ten seconds, he pressed again, long and hard, the way an impatient Quisling ringwearer would when he wasn't getting service to his liking.

It took a full minute for a crackly voice to answer.

"Yes?" the voice crackled through the tarnished, oil-smeared speaker.

"This is Colonel Sanity Marks, Combat Tech Service. I've got a wiring team broken down three miles west of here and I need transport. I'll require one of your trucks and a motorcycle for at least forty-eight hours."

"Tell it to the Coastal Marines, sapper."

Valentine raised his eyebrows to Rollings.

"Is Sergeant Nelson in there?" Rollings said.

"Who wants to know?"

"Tell him it's Rollings, late of the River Road Light. This colonel is steamed, I shit you not, and he's got a brass ring and a crapped-out truck full of guys with computers and fiberoptic line."

"Someone will be out in a moment."

Valentine snapped: "I had a harpy swoop overhead not five minutes ago. Get out here before the damn thing comes back and shits on me. I hate those fucking things."

A corporal and a private appeared, looking like they'd just yanked their uniform shirts off of hangers: The shoulders were riding ridged and high.

"Sir," the corporal said. "I'm going to need to see some orders and identification."

Valentine shoved his ring fist through the bars. "I've got a broken-down truck and a wiring team that's six hours late now. Get us the hell inside."

The corporal bussed the ring with his lips. Valentine had made the obeisance often enough during his sojourn as a Coastal Marine in the Gulf. On a ring belonging to the proper wearer, it gave off a slight tingle.

"Not the Grog," the corporal protested.

If he folded once, he'd fold again. Valentine turned his gaze to the silent armsman.

"Private, you want to speed things up for me? You can have this corporal's stripes. I think by the time I've written my evaluation, he won't need them anymore."

"Sir, no disrespect, but I'll get into more trouble by not following procedures than you could ever bring down."

"I wonder. You know anything about distributed secure networks?"

"Uh-no, sir."

Which was just as well. Valentine didn't know anything about it either. The corporal silently allowed the group inside.

uGas up two trucks. Put batteries in or whatever you have to do to get them going."

"Thought you said-"

"I'm going to listen to the engines of both," Valentine said. "I'll take the truck that sounds healthier."

Valentine didn't wait for an answer and headed toward the main office door between the two bigger buildings. Bee trailed behind.

He opened the door and wiped his feet. Two men in undershirts were lacing boots up.

There was a duty desk, a mail sorter, and a long bureau with an electric coffeepot and pieces of weaponry, lighting, and com gear wearing yellow toe tags atop it beneath silvery letters reading:

Happy New Year

-Look Alive In 'Fifty-Five

"Where's Sergeant Nelson?"

"Celebrating in Paclucah, sir."

"They're having fireworks," the other added, gaping at Bee. She sniffed the warm, stale air.

Valentine smelled a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee.

"Rollings!" Valentine called over his shoulder. He used the opportunity to scan the little office. There was a sort of wooden loft above with a water tank and boxes of supplies. He had a moment's startle-a shadow above pointed at him with an accusing finger. . . .

It turned out to be a mannequin of a nude female with a feather boa.

"Right here, Major."

Valentine thought quickly. "That's 'Colonel,' son. I'm not your old CO. You keep forgetting."

"Sorry, Colonel."

"You know any of these fellas? Who's in charge?"

"That would be me," a gruff voice came from the doorway to what looked like a residence room. A sergeant with a beer gut partially covering a pistol belt stood in the doorway. "What's the emergency, Colonel?"

"Worse than you know, Sergeant," Valentine said. He reached into his attache and began extracting paperwork and placing it on the duty desk. He took out the gun and pointed it at the NCO.

"I'm sorry to inform you all that you're my prisoners. Rollings, that's a nice looking .45 the sergeant has on his belt. Relive him of it."

Bee stiffened and drew her own shotguns from her waistband. "Watch the door, Bee.

Door," Valentine said.

"Turn your backs, gentlemen, and place your hands on the back of your head, fingers interlaced. Kneel."

Valentine made sure they complied, listening for other sounds of life in the dark warehouse next door. Out in the motor yard, he heard a truck turn over. "Now, if you're cooperative for the next hour or so, you'll be taken prisoner and brought back to a Southern Command base. You'll be surprised how nice the day-release POW camps are. If you give us any trouble, I'll leave you tied here for the Reapers. Decision time."

* * * *

Valentine called the other two in. They gaped at their comrades kneeling with faces to the wall.

"What's with all this?"

That was the kind of quality manpower that pulled duty on New Year's Eve. Only after Valentine prodded the corporal with his barrel did the Quisling realize what was going on.

He made them the same offer he did the others.

They cooperated.

Valentine snipped the telephone wires, hoping that if it activated a trouble alarm, there wouldn't be enough New Year's staff to investigate right away. He and set Rollings to work unscrewing the station's radio from the shelf at the com desk. They did a quick sweep of the building while the Wolves watched both ends of the road, and then started looking through the armory.

The river patrol had good gear, including rocket-propelled grenades that Corporal Glass looked over and selected. Valentine found a case of four Type 3s-that had been the weapon issued to his Razors by Solon, who'd evidently had a bigger budget than the river patrol. The small arms were a little disappointing, mostly cut-down versions of the venerable M16. On the other hand, there was a plentitude of small support machine guns that could be carried or fixed to a boat mount. Most of the weapons were packed in protective lubricant-it would take hours to clean them-so the platoon would have to get back with what they brought.

They ended up filling two truck trailers with boxes of weapons and ammunition and other assorted pieces of lethality, plus as much com gear and medicines as they could find. As Valentine and Patel supervised the loading, the assigned drivers checked the tires and tested the lights and horns on their vehicles.

The men rode in the beds of the camouflaged service trucks with the prisoners secured to floor bolts. They'd even liberated some walkie-talkies so the drivers could communicate with each other. Condensed and dehydrated foodstuffs and extra gear was piled in bags hanging off the back and strapped to the hoods.

They even took the dog. Valentine didn't mind; he liked dogs. Though it was heartbreaking if you had to eat them.

As they pulled out and bumped west, witch fingers of tree branches scratched the sides of the truck.

In the dark, with the roads potholed and washed out, they couldn't go much faster than a man could trot. Patel had the Wolves lope ahead and behind, scouting and checking for pursuit.

All that marked their departure was noise, and that only briefly. A siren started up from the armory as soon as they were out of sight.

"What you figure that signifies, Major?" the man at the wheel asked.

"We'll find out soon enough," Valentine said.

Valentine shifted the machine pistol to his lap and checked the soldier's rifle and the bandolier resting on the dash. He and this version of Southern Command's single shot breechloaders were old, conflicted friends dating back to his days in the Labor Regiment. It was a fine gun, accurate with stopping power sufficient to knock a Reaper off its feet, if you didn't mind having to reload every time you fired a round.

Valentine opened the glass panel between the cabin and the back of the truck.

"Someone ask our prisoners what that noise is," Valentine said over the truck's protesting suspension.

"Alarm, sir."

"Was there someone there they didn't tell us about?"

Valentine waited a moment while Patel asked a few questions.

"Could be a gargoyle, Major. They overfly the area all the time. One might have seen the trucks leave. Could be he flew down to investigate. Gargoyles are smarter than harpies."

They're also smart enough to guide in a few Reapers.

Valentine opened the truck door, checking that he wouldn't be swept off, or worse, by the branches ahead. He searched the night sky.

The glare of the following truck's headlights made it difficult to see.

"Kill the lights," Valentine said to his driver, dropping back into the cab.

"Pass back to the following truck: Kill the lights," Valentine said to Patel. Patel lifted a brand-new walkie-talkie from the armory and spoke into it.

With the lights out on the rear truck, Valentine tried again, duck-ing under a branch that snapped and snipped as it broke along the truck's side.

A shadow hung behind the trucks, following the road. A shadow that closed in on itself, thickening as it followed their vehicles.

Harpies. Dirty, flapping-

Valentine wondered what they were carrying, apart from ugly. He wondered if the theoretical gargoyle had sent them after the trucks. They had enough cunning to know something was wrong and that they'd be rewarded for stopping the trucks.

Fixated by the shadow, Valentine starting to pick out individual wings and short, skinny bowlegs. A branch slapped him out of his trance, and he ducked back into the cabin.

"Harpies," Valentine said. "Pass the world. Honk and bring the Wolves in."

He hated those snaggletoothed bastards. A sort of cold clarity took over as he stifled the urge to get one in his hands and dismember it like a well-cooked chicken.

"We could stop under thick trees, Major."

"No, that'll just give them more time to figure something out. And let them aim."

Valentine looked at the bungees holding the cargo on the roof. He detached a couple of the S hooks and fitted them on to his vest and belt. Testing his grip, he exited the cab, closed the truck door, and hooked another bungee to the bars covering the passenger window.

"Stop a sec and pass me up the gun and bandolier," Valentine said. "And try to keep to the left."

As the truck ground into motion again, Valentine now hanging on the outside with his foot on a fuel tank, he found that the side-view mirror protected him from the bigger branches. All it did for the smaller ones was bend them back to give them a little more energy for a swat.

The Wolf scouts returned and perched on the hood and front hedge cutter. At a turn Valentine saw the following truck also had Wolves atop the driver's cab.

"Pass the word: Wait until I shoot," Valentine ordered.

The shadow broke into individual forms as it neared. Valentine searched the flock for the bigger, longer-legged form of a gargoyle. The harpies darted and zigzagged as they flew; it was how their bodies kept aloft. He placed his foresight on one hurrying to get ahead of the trucks.

Its course was a crazy mix of ups and downs, backs and forths. . . . But between the frantic beats of the wings you could sometimes track them on a glide-

BLAM!

Valentine had been so used to firing guns equipped with flash suppressors he'd forgotten the white-yellow photoflash. And he'd forgotten just how hard you had to press into the stock to absorb the shock.

Valentine worked the lever and ejected the little thimble of the shell casing, his shoulder smarting with the old mule kick.

Missed.

The Wolf on the hood had a combat shotgun, a sensible weapon for brush fighting. He tracked one of harpies above and fired.

Valentine heard a high, inhuman scream.

Time to get down with the sickness.

The sickness. The shadow half. The monster.

Valentine had a few names for it, depending on his mood. He'd learned long ago that a part of him rejoiced in the death of his enemies and his own survival. Whether it was a character flaw or some piece of strange heritage passed down from his Bear father didn't matter. The awful exhilaration he felt when he killed, triumphed, made him wonder whether he wasn't even more deserving of destruction for the good of the world, like some rabid dog.

But for now the sickness had its uses.

Valentine, remembering his early years in the Wolves, made an effort to thank those left behind at the landings and hear their accounts.

He shouldered the gun. One was diving right at the truck. Its feet rubbed together and a plastic strip fell-it had armed some kind of grenade. BLAM!

Damn cranky gun.

Maybe he put a bullet through its wing and spoiled the dive. It flapped off to the left and dropped its explosive.

It detonated, orange and loud, in a stand of brush. Valentine wondered what the birds and critters residing in the undergrowth thought.

Don't get weird now, mate. Job at hand.

Valentine heard canvas tearing. The men in the bed of the truck were hacking off the truck-bed cover to better employ their guns.

Valentine aimed again, but a twiggy smack in the back of the head spoiled his shot.

"Four o'clock!"

A line of harpies were coming in, bright plastic grenade tabs fluttering as they pulled the arming pins. They were flapping hard, each bat form describing a crazy knuckleball course.

"There's a good straightaway ahead, sir," yelled the driver.

"Put on some speed," Valentine said.

He fired, and the men in the trucks fired, and when the orange ball of light cleared there was only one harpy left. It dropped the stick grenade on the road and flapped hard to gain altitude, but someone in the second truck brought it down.

Their luck was in. The device didn't go off.

Another line of harpies had gotten around the front.

"Twelve high!" the Wolf hanging off the brush cutter called.

Now the small, questing branches could whack him on the cheek and bridge of Valentine's nose. A good deal more painfully, as the truck had picked up speed.

He tasted his own blood and felt something sticky on his neck, but he didn't feel anything worse than a scratch or two.

The night smelled like blood, wet leaves, and rotten eggs.

Valentine reloaded as the harpies made their run. He could see their beady eyes reflecting red in the moonlight.

One of his soldiers in misty denim, a big man with bushy sideburns, let loose with a double-barrel, dropped the gun to someone below, and took up a pump action. Valentine aimed and fired. He watched his target plunge, falling loopily as a kite with a cut string, but suspected the man resting his aiming arm on the cab hood had downed the beastie.

The others dropped their explosives. Grenades bounced all over the road. The man hanging off the brush cutter disappeared into flash and smoke, but when they emerged again from the blasts he was still there, blackened and frazzled but evidently intact.

Valentine, with the thick fuzzy head and the muffled hearing of someone who'd been a little too near a blast, saw another harpy fall, brought down by the truck behind. The flock, perhaps not liking the punishment being handed out with little to show for it, turned and gathered to the east, doing a sort of whirling corkscrew aerial conference.

"Eyes on the road," Patel bellowed at the driver.

A pushed-over tree blocked the road.

The driver braked hard, and the truck jumped to a tune of squealing brakes. The Wolf on the front, evidently uninjured but stunned by the explosion, was thrown by the sudden braking, struck the trunk of the downed tree, and went heels-over-head onto the other side of the trunk.

Valentine, more or less secured by the bungees, lost nothing but his dignity as he saw himself swinging, holding on to the bars over the passenger window.

Patel was already out of the truck, running with a first aid kit.

Valentine saw a big, wide-winged shape flapping away low. He raised his gun, aimed, and fired at the big target.

The gargoyle lurched but kept flapping.

Valentine swore. The big, soft-nosed bullet should have brought it down. His old marksmanship trainer in the Labor Regiment had promised the kick in the shoulder was nothing to what the target experienced. He'd seen a round take a softball-sized chunk of flesh out of a wild pig. He must have just clipped it on a limb.

It disappeared behind a line of trees.

Valentine looked at the roadblock.

What kind of super-gargoyle could push over a tree? Nothing short of a Reaper could.

Valentine looked at the tangle of old, weatherworn roots. The tree had been downed some time ago and moved off the road. The gargoyle had simply moved it back. Still, an incredible display of strength. Their flying arms were supposed to be powerful.

Worse, the harpies were heartened by the stationary trucks. They formed a new shadow, and then an arrow, pointed straight at the delayed trucks.

"Get that tree out of the way," Valentine shouted.

The men piled out of the trucks while the other Wolf helped Patel with the injured man.

"Faster," Valentine urged. He raised himself up so he could shout to the truck behind.

"Second squad, deploy. Let's keep those bastards off us."

The men, with their varmint and bird guns mixed in with the militia rifles, spread out.

Valentine fired into the flying mass without picking out a target. Hitting with the wonky old rifle was purely a matter of chance.

"Watch each other's backs-there's more coming around from eight o'clock," Valentine shouted.

The rest began to pepper the harpies with careful shots. One pair, Rutherford and DuSable, shifted position to give better covering fire to the men working on clearing the fallen log.

Valentine made a note of it-the noise and confusion of gunfire short-circuited some and they forgot the bigger picture. A flier spun down; another followed intentionally, coming to its aid.

Perhaps they were a mated pair.

Valentine fired three more times quickly, and then jammed the gun. The ejector had torn off the heat-softened brass rim on the casing. He grabbed the hot barrel at the other end. The ornery weapon would be more lethal as a club anyway. Then he remembered his machine pistol.

He flipped open the stock and extended the foregrip. It did group tightly, and the harpies were closing.

The prisoners in the trucks began to yell. They'd been left handcuffed inside.

The harpies swooped over the vehicles, dropping grenades and plastic arming tabs.

Valentine watched a grenade bounce under the truck, realized that the same bungees that kept him secured to the passenger door were keeping him from jumping off-

All he could do was wait for it. He fired a burst at a harpy coming straight for the cab, watched with satisfaction as the bullets tore it into a blood-rain of gory pieces.

The grenade went off but didn't sound much louder than an overstuffed firecracker. Other explosions rocked the second truck.

Valentine brought down another harpy, who'd suddenly appeared from behind a tree as though he'd popped into existence just to aim a leg claw at Valentine's throat. He reloaded, but the sky had cleared. The harpies had had enough at last and the flock was keeping low.

The soldiers moved the obstacle and got on their way again.

The front truck was leaking coolant, and a couple of the mechanically minded did a bird-droppings-and-bubblegum fix that slowed the leak. They had to stop and refill with water.

They'd destroy the engine before recrossing the Mississippi anyway.

It got them to the landing.

The men were in admirably high spirits. The only serious injury they'd suffered was to the Wolf from the front truck, who'd broken a wrist, hurt a knee, and taken a piece of shrapnel to his calf, though one of the prisoners had an ugly gash in his scalp and another had torn his wrist open trying to get out of his handcuffs as the trucks were bombed.

The injured Wolf rode back to the landing, scratching the dog's ears in good humor despite his injuries.

At the landing Valentine was happy to let Rand take over.

"Far shore says river watchers report clear river," the man at the radio said. "We've got the okay to cross."

A pair of the Skeeter Fleet roared downriver.

Valentine's head felt thick and the old gunsmoke smell was getting nauseating. "Get the swag loaded and the men on the boats and rafts. And-"

There it was. The cold spot on his mind, a bit of ball lightning lurking in the thick river woods, raising the hairs on the back of his head. Reaper!

"And, sir?" Rand asked.

"And I'm going back up the road a bit to make sure there's no pursuit."

Rand pushed the glasses back up on his nose and nodded. "Ten, fifteen minutes at most, sir."

"Patel. Hoboken."

They trotted over, Patel solemn at the tone in his voice.

"Hood," Valentine said, using Southern Command slang for a Reaper.

They took the news like experienced Wolves. Concern but not panic. Hoboken put his hand on the big parang at his waist.

It was back along the road away, somewhere at the top of the river-bank. It might just be watching, waiting for someone to trot off into the bushes to take a crap. Sure, it could wade into them and do a lot of damage, but how many dead pawns would make the Kurian controlling it think the sacrifice worth the loss of his knight?

But who knew what might be rushing to its aid.

Valentine and the Wolves slipped off into the brush, spread out by a few meters, preventing the Reaper from taking two at once if it decided to fall on them.

"Lifesign down," Valentine said.

Reapers hunted by seeking the emotional signal given off by intelligent minds. The Hunters had spent a good deal of time in mental training, learning to meditate their lifesign down until it was like background radiation.

Problem was, it was hard to forget that you were on the wrong bank of the river, with your friends about to leave, and a walking death machine lurking, probably as fast and strong as all three of you put together. At night Reapers were at the height of their lifesign-sensing powers.

He hoped this one was concentrating on the throng at the riverbank.

Valentine quietly removed the stiletto from his forearm. If it grabbed him, he might get it through the eye or ear or jaw as it snapped his spine or tore into him with its foot-plus long, flanged tongue.

Purely a matter of chance which man it would target, but Valentine took the middle. A smart Reaper might strike there, hoping that the others at either wing would shoot at each other in the confusion.

They took turns walking, one going forward while the other two covered, the men behind giving soft clicks of the tongue when the first man could no longer be covered.

Something was wrong-the location. . . . Valentine cast about like a dog in a swirling breeze. No, it was to the side, too high.

He froze, gave a signal for the others to keep still as well.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph-

It was up a tree, resting on a flatish branch above a deadfall that gave it a good view of the river and landing. But the silhouette was all wrong-the pelvis and lower limbs were turned around, like a bird's. The limbs were thin. Valentine had seen starvation cases that looked fat compared to this Reaper's limbs. Leathery wings like a bat's extended from overlarge arms and oversized fingers, now flaccid and hanging like a child playing superhero with a sheet pinned to his back and clutched at the fists.

A backswept forehead had a little plume of stiff hair to it, like a centurion's helmet.

Valentine must have startled, misstepped. The long, backswept face turned and cocked, just like a robin listening for a worm.

The eyes, the color of a dying sun, were cold and familiar.

Valentine shouldered the 18 Select and it launched itself off the branch with a spring of its rear limbs. A short, forked tail had more webbing leading to the legs. The thing could maneuver like a duck. It turned and Valentine loosed a burst.

It disappeared into the trees. Valentine got a glimse of elongated ostrich toes as it disappeared. He hardened his ears and heard branches snapping.

"What the blue hell was that?" Patel asked, coming forward at a crouch. He scanned the branches above, as if fearing nests filled with little chirping Reapers.

"I don't want to wait to find out. Back to the landing."

Valentine's head wanted to disappear between his shoulders, turtlelike, the whole way back. It was far too easy to imagine the avian Reaper-if it was a Reaper-reaching down and knocking his head off with one of those slender legs like a perched cat swatting at a ball of string.

The men had fun stripping and destroying the trucks. They'd even used a tree limb to winch out one of the diesels. Patel made some flat-bread on a greasy skillet while the strike platoon rested and let Rand's team do their jobs filling the boats. Valentine rode back on the ricketiest-looking raft, leaning against stacks of tires and boxes filled with headlights and radio gear as he watched the old houseboat's pontoons and netted masses of Ping-Pong balls scrape and roll through the water.

He could hear firing from downriver, a kak-kak-kash of small cannon that reminded him of the old Thunderbolt's Oerlikon. He watched signal flares fired from the friendly shore, and a boat roared by with the last of the Wolf rear guard.

The sky was already pinkening.

Some of his men gathered at the far end of the boat, watching the hostile shore recede. As Valentine watched the southern half of the mighty river in the direction of the firing, he listened on a member his strike platoon and a member of the landing detail talking to a rafter as they were towed back across the Mississippi:

"The major is the coolest sonofabitch under fire I've ever seen, I'm here to tell. The bat-bastards came in and he stood up on the truck, just picking them off while grenades dropped all around."

"They can't train guts into you," another agreed. "He's tough."

Well, you can bungee yourself up so you can't run too.

Valentine was too pleased to correct them; besides, the shaggy hound had decided to hop up on the piled tires and deploy a rasping tongue on the cuts and scrapes courtesy of the Kentucky roadside growth.

* * * *

All in all, it was a successful operation. A sniper had killed one of Moytana's Wolves and a Bear was missing in action. He'd last been seen roaring down after a blood trail in the assault on the river patrol docks. Gamecock was hopeful he'd wander back into camp in a week or so once he sniffed out a method to get back across the river.

The worst losses had been suffered by the Skeeter Fleet: A motor-boat with three men had blown up during a riverine duel with river patrol craft. Their pictures had already gone up on the memorial wall at Backwater Pete's, a bar up the Arkansas River near the Skeeter Fleet general headquarters.

That was the hateful side of the Cause. A chance conversation leading to an opportunity to hit the enemy where he wouldn't expect. And at the end of it, when the excitement was over and the ineffable, after-action halo faded, came the bill. All because he did his duty.

But his duty was also to turn this assortment of experienced soldiers (and the odd ex-sailor; he had two floaters in with his fighters) into a cohesive unit, to know which pieces functioned in what way under stress. They'd been over the river and back again together, in spirit, even if everybody hadn't crossed the Mississippi.

Now he had a team.

* * * *

At the debriefing back at Camp Highbeam, the only person unhappy about the raid was Brother Mark. He looked strained and pale in the fluorescent lighting of the camp classroom that doubled as a conference room. He'd been out on one of his contact trips, negotiating with legworm ranchers, the resistance, and who knew what else.

"There is a plan, you know," Brother Mark said after asking questions about exactly where the fighting had taken place. "We don't need to be jamming sticks into the hornet's nest, stirring them up."

Valentine was a little dissatisfied too, when he told the story about the flying Reaper.

"Sure it wasn't just a real skinny gargoyle?" Captain Moytana asked. He'd written the letter about the dead Wolf and posted it to his folks that morning.

"I'll send a message to the Miskatonic about it," Valentine told the faces around the conference table. "I don't suppose there's a good artist somewhere in the brigade."

"One more matter," Colonel Seng said, his wide catfish face graver than usual. "The usual after-action leaves will not take place. I wish to intensify training. The whole camp is going to start route-marching exercises and war games. The orders and scheduling will be on your desks within two days."

Gamecock groaned. "My Bears expect their due."

"They're not your Bears, Lieutenant," Seng said. "They're Southern Command's. They'll get their chance at a short leave. So will all of you. This operation may begin sooner than anyone dreams."

Valentine intercepted Brother Mark as the meeting broke up. It was easy; he wasn't a popular man. Valentine didn't know if it was his fussy manner of speaking or the resentment of soldiers who had to work with a civilian's eye on them.

"Excuse me, sir," Valentine said. "Were you just with the rebels in the Virginias?"

"I can't tell you that, son."

"You've been there, though. You've told us that much."

"Yes," Brother Mark said, wary.

"Have you seen the Grog that's supposed to be with them? Leading them?"

"I don't know about leading. They definitely listen to him. He's sort of a mascot or good luck charm. They always perk up when he's around."

"What's he like?" Valentine asked.

"I suspect you know. I was briefed on your trip through Kentucky. Big. Leaner and less stooped-over than those thick-hides with the fangs. He can speak too. I've never met a Grog who can do that."

"The last time you saw him, was he well?" Valentine asked. Brother Mark should be able to answer that.

"Healthy as a horse. They call him the Uncle, by the way. I just remembered that. He's scarred, but the injuries are healed. Does that put your mind at ease."

"You've- I'm very happy to hear that, sir. Thank you."

"Happy. I remember that. I'm jealous, son. Excuse me, I must attend to the colonel. Be true."

He turned away, hurrying to catch up to Colonel Seng, ending the conversation.

* * * *

The brigade made practice marches interspersed with combat training. Jolla's command, including Valentine's company, was often matched against the rest of the brigade.

After one of these skirmishes, the Guard lieutenant colonel Gage sat Valentine in his command car, a beat-up old Humvee with an oversized bed and extra brackets that allowed it to double as an ambulance.

"Goddamit, Major, our boys are supposed to win. How are they supposed to build confidence when your glorified chicken wranglers burn a couple dozen of them?"

"Tell your junior officers that just because an area's been checked for mines, it doesn't mean I can't go back and replant after they've passed through," Valentine said. "My orders were to delay your march on Red Ridge."

Valentine wanted to add that if Daniels would keep his companies in closer contact, Valentine wouldn't have had time to mine their road, but that would be presumptuous.

"You could act a little more like Quislings. They always fall back in the face of superior numbers. They don't hunker down and let the first wave get past."

"I know, sir," Valentine said.

Gage cooled down. He'd obviously just been chewed on by Seng, who was pushing the brigade like a madman. "They still calling your guys the shit detail?"

"I haven't heard it in a while," Valentine said.

"Got to hand it to you, though. After the last time getting at those Grogs of yours with the auto 50s, everyone figured we hadn't run into your boys yet because they hadn't started sniping.

Weren't you staff at one timer"

"Supposed to be. An old ghost caught up to me and I never made it."

"Sorry to boil up on you like that. I'm glad you'll be on our side when we march up-country."

* * * *

As January turned to February, a big duffel bag arrived, labels and identifying inking scrawled all over it. It turned out to be all the way from Pacific Command.

Valentine read the letter in the waterproof courier pouch stitched onto the canvas: Valentine,

After many wanderings your goods surfaced and I became aware of their existence. I promptly inventoried and dispatched them to Denver, courtesy of a liaison, and I'm confident they'll make it to Southern Command before too many more months pass.

Been seeing a lot of your friend Gide. She's got a mouth on her but she's turning into a dead shot witch of the woods. They're talking about putting me into GHO up here and if that happens I might see about a ring for the end of those snake tattoos. She lost three toes and a chunk of buttock t0 a mortar round, so she's off the A-active list but is recovering nicely. She sends a kiss and wants to know if you're still musky. I won't be ungentlemanly and speculate.

Please accept your property with my compliments and apologies for the delay. What the hell is that thick leathery material, anyway? If you've got any to spare I'd like some for a jacket, Yours in the Cause

J. LeHavre, Colonel

Pacific Command

His old legworm leathers, gear, and sword had been wrapped up in a waterproof, but someone had made off with his boots either before it was turned over to LeHavre or along the road. Valentine wished their new owner's feet well.

The thief, if there had been a thief, missed a stiffened cuirass of cross-grained Reaper cloth, light and breathable and yet strong enough to stop a rifle round.

He looked at the sword. Some craftsman had put a new sharkskin grip on it-at least he thought it was sharkskin; it might have been roughed up big mouth-which was just as well as the old woven one had been getting ragged and bloodstained. He looked closer. There was a tiny little G inked just under the hilt cap next to the stitching. Now that he knew what to look for, he found a similar initial stitched just inside one of the interior side's many map pockets.

Nice to have a souvenir of his best memories of the Cascades.

Valentine noticed that she hadn't returned the old Steyr Scout. He didn't regret it-she'd probably make better use of it than he could.

* * * *

With the company full up and the training proceeding as planned, Valentine found more time to study Seng's texts and notes from his term at the staff school. Seng was generous with his own time, translating cryptic notes if nothing else. Seng's graduation thesis, filling an entire binder, was on Winston Churchill when Britain was fighting alone during the dark years between the fall of France and Operation Barbarossa, when Germany launched her fatal attack on Soviet Russia. Valentine found the Seng thesis more interesting and readable than many of the historians he'd read in Father Max's old library.

He still felt his company lacked a certain spark of initiative that Southern Command's soldiers seemed to be born with. Or perhaps Valentine, with more experience in picked commands, was used to building a unit with a better grade of materials. Their instinct was to hand every problem up rather than improvise a solution and then report.

He took to sending out small units with simple tasks-find a backpack he'd placed in a ravine without being spotted by pickets-and then change their orders at the last moment and kill all radio communications. He and Patel would then lead a couple squads in a mock pursuit.

If they weren't bred to think on their feet, he'd train it into them.

The bright spot in the shakedown was Glass' improvement. He knew the men joked that in Ford and Chevy, Glass finally had some friends who shared his taste for mostly communicating in grunts. Glass wanted to try them out with grenade launchers or the new, ultralight knee mortars from a Southern Command inventor.

Valentine allowed himself one luxury (other than the occasional long shower with his gift soaps): He taught Bee to shine his shoes and polish his belt buckle and name tag on his A uniform. Bee was feminine enough to like things pretty, though he occasionally had to take the woven daisy chains of wildflowers off his pack or remove the mini-bouquets peeking out the gutter at the bottom of his pistol holster. Some of the other officers in the brigade asked him how he classified her-adjutant, aide, or spouse-but Bee's elephantine grace and gentility gave her a charm that assured her a constant stream of sweets and ribbons from officers "just passing through the trader stalls and thought she'd like this."

He'd even heard the Command sergeant major, the senior NCO for the brigade, refer to her as their "big beauty." She'd come a long way in the men's opinion since her arrival in a tutu.

For relaxation he played chess with Rand. Rand won most of the time. He was such a talented, cold player that Valentine wondered if he made intentional mistakes out of curiosity to see what his CO would do when presented with an opportunity, just to give his brain a new set of data points and challenges. Rand apparently never let anyone behind the shield of his professionalism, even when they chatted after their chess games about the progress of the company.

They weren't close, but he was as fine a junior officer as Valentine could ever want.

Then came the spring storms. The camp began to buzz. As usual, the men had somehow picked up that something was about to happen and soon, days before Valentine got his orders to report to a final briefing.

* * * *

The camp grapevine proved to be right. All future leaves were canceled, the day trips into town ended, and last-minute munitions arrived, including a small supply of Quickwood bullets.

With the gear, the important men and women who came equipped with bodyguards, advisers, secretaries, and drivers began to arrive the next day. Valentine gave the same status report for his company three times in one day.

It would have been four but General Lehman cut him off as Valentine spoke to him in the base officers' club that never really got going. The dusty chairs, old movie posters, and license plates from the states making up the UFR all looked like they wanted to be put out of their misery.

"Javelin's under step-off orders, Major. Any reason your men can't go with it?"

"No, General."

"Heard good things about you. Gage says your men have been giving him hell playing OPFOR."

"That's kind of him, General."

"Not sure I like you training Grogs though. Sniffer dogs have their purposes, but you don't want them juggling grenades." He stopped, waiting for an answer.

"Of course not, sir."

An aide appeared and handed Lehman a flimsy. Lehman excused himself, scanned it, and nodded his head yes as he handed it back.

"They'll add a bit of verisimilitude to the, what is it, technical crew your men are supposed to look like."

"That's the idea, sir."

"A good one. Yours?"

"No, one of the Liberty recruit's. She's company clerk now."

"I don't trust ex-Quislings much farther than I can throw them. They caused us a lot of trouble before. Hope it works out for you. See you at the briefing tonight, Valentine.

Dismissed."

The briefing, held in the guarded mess hall and using chairs begged and borrowed from every headquarters tent in the brigade, was mercifully brief. Which was just as well; the blackout curtains killed airflow as well as light. More than a hundred bodies burned a lot of calories over a couple hours. The tent quickly became stuffy.

Lehman opened it with a few words about how javelins were used in ancient warfare to strike troops behind the front ranks. Lambert and Sime and a few new faces were there, politicians most likely. In the throng of uniformed aides and assistants stood one man in hunting gear who took a lot of notes and a few pictures. Valentine guessed he was from the Battle Cry, Southern Command's military newspaper.

Conspicuously absent, at least to Valentine, were Brother Mark and Moytana's senior Wolf lieutenant. Rumor had it they were already in the Kurian Zone, somewhere north of Memphis.

What combination of diplomacy and guerrilla havoc might be already under way? If Valentine had had his choice of assignments for this operation, he would have been with them as well. But support and logistics would be critical in an operation this far from Southern Commands bases.

Seng gave some final instructions for the movement to Rally Base, the terminus for the operation's communications with GHQ and what would one day, hopefully, be a routing station for troops staging trips to or back from the new Freehold on the northern Cumberland Plateau and Appalachians.

The campaign map had a few new notations. Three Cats had been dispatched to Kentucky, spaced out along their line of march. Logistics Commandos had infiltrated in behind the Cats.

Valentine wondered what they'd been told about Highbeam, or Javelin, or whatever false information they'd been fed in case of capture.

Lambert look strained. But she collected her old briskness for a few words to the assembled officers.

"Yes, this operation is a risk," she said. The junior officers and senior NCOs had just found out their true destination from Colonel Seng. The news was still sinking in.

"But the coal country of Virginia, and the legworms of Kentucky, are both key to the Kurian Order. Civilization needs electricity and the people living in that civilization need protein."

For a moment Valentine thought he was back in the Cascades, where denial of resources had meant grisly strategies involving civilian bodies stacked like cordwood, while Adler carried out his war against Seattle. He envied the men around him for a moment. To them, Lambert's words were just military jargon.

"They'll hit back hard when they figure out what you're doing. But if you can win that fight, it'll put cracks in the foundation of every Kurian tower east of the Mississippi. Remember that. Remember, also, that you're not alone, even in the darkest valley of fear. The people across the Mississippi hate the Kurians just as much as we do; they just don't get a chance to do anything about it. Is Javelin Brigade up for this challenge?"

Variations of "Sir."

"Yes," and fighting yips broke out in the cafeteria.

"Send 'em back to hell," General Lehman said.

With that, the meeting adjourned, though Seng somewhat killed the theatrical mood by announcing a new series of meetings starting before breakfast the next day.

* * * *

The columns marched out of camp in a drizzle. Valentine rode, but he stopped his horse across from the gate to admire the rare sight of Southern Command forces marching in step, swinging their arms in time, rifles over their shoulders.

"Good luck in Louisiana," someone called. Valentine wondered if he was a plant or just a camp civilian employee who'd picked up the rumor that they were heading south.

The general's color guard was present for the occasion. The pipes and drum set up a merry tune. Valentine thought it might be the hoary old sports perennial "Who Let the Bears Out?"-a favorite at basketball games.

"Next stop, New Orleans, Major," Rand called to him as his company wheeled to head south down the highway. He'd been coached to say it, and it sounded forced. Whatever his other strengths, Rand couldn't dissemble.

Valentine nudged his horse forward and took his place in the column at the head of his company. Their strange un-uniforms stood out so they marched at the rear, among the wagons, trucks, cook vans, and pack animals.

"That's a nice mule, mister," a woman's voice called from the crowd as Valentine walked the Morgan on the Maiden road. Valentine recognized the voice.

He searched the crowd.

"Molly!"

It was her. Valentine saw a tan, full-lipped face. Her blond hair shone even in the blustery spring gloom. She'd made an effort with her face and eyes.

He hadn't seen her in four years. The emotional rush almost unseated him from the Morgan.

They'd once been intimate-no, that wasn't fair, they'd once been lovers and passable friends. He'd met her on a long courier mission to the Great Lakes, when her family had helped an injured comrade of his. He'd gotten her family out of the Kurian Zone, and Molly as well, by a near miracle after she'd been arrested for the murder of an important Illinois mouthpiece. She'd become engaged to a Guard while he was in the Wolves.

Edward stood next to her in what Valentine guessed was his only pair of long pants, judging from the state of the knees. His dark, cowlick-filled hair looked like it had waged a morning-long guerrilla war against its combing. How old was he now? Six?

He'd lost his father before he'd been born, in Consul Solon's invasion. Graf Stockard was one of thousands missing in action from the "old" Ozark Free Territory.

Valentine turned his horse and got it out of the way of the marching column. Engines blatted and wheels creaked on by. He dismounted swiftly and Molly gave him a friendly hug.

"What in the world-"

"It's a long story," she said. "We made a special trip to see you off, Edward and I."

Molly had a small cap stuck in the belt of her overcoat. Valentine lifted it and checked the insignia.

"I purchase horses for Southern Command now. Do you remember Captain Valdez from Quapaw? He got me a job as a wrangler for the equine department at Selection and Purchase. I got promoted last year." She patted the Morgan's nose. "I might even have bought your mount.

It's about the right age and from Half-Day Farms."

"Raccoon's a good horse," Valentine said. "I don't understand. You found me through Logistics?"

"Oh, no. I was worried about you, after-after that business where you were . . ."

Her eyes had lines at the edges. But then she spent a lot of time outside. Up close, the blond hair looked a trifle brittle. She hadn't had an easy time of it either, raising a son on her own.

"Arrested," Valentine said, coming back to the road.

Edward seemed fascinated with the butt of Valentine's .45. His eyes hardly left it.

"I wrote a letter. I wanted to know about your trial. It took forever to get an answer. A junior secretary in civil affairs, a very nice corporal named Dots. I guess she saw it in a pile and she wrote an answer. It's those long-service corporals who are always nicest to work with, I find."

Valentine would have introduced her to Glass if he had the time. He reminded himself to add a private message to Lambert on his first report.

"I'll have to thank Corporal Dots. I-it's nice to have someone see you off."

"She sent me a quickie a week ago, saying that your unit was moving out. I wondered that she kept track of you. I bet she's got a bit of a crush on you. She said you had a very handsome file photo."

Valentine saw her eyes flit to his scar and then his jawline. "Must have been an old photo."

She hooked her cheek with her index finger and showed a missing molar. "The years haven't been kind to either of us."

"You could get that fixed."

"Thought about it. But I stick my pencil there when I'm testing horses."

"Good luck, Daddy," Edward said.

Molly grabbed him at the shoulder. "Edward! We talked about this."

Raccoon seemed to sway first one way then another as Valentine used the horse's neck to hold himself up. "What?" he thought he said. Maybe it was just a choked exclamation.

Edward went wide-eyed in recognition of his own wrongdoing.

"You can't break promises like that," Molly continued. She looked to her left. "Mrs. Long, can you make sure he doesn't run under a truck?"

Mrs. Long looked like she wanted to hear the rest of the conversation. "Yes'm," she said.

She gave Valentine a dirty look as Molly pulled him away.

"Edward, do me a favor, watch my horse," Valentine said, passing the reins to the boy.

The dodged between trucks and made it to the other side of the road, just missing Tiddle roaring along the column on his dirt bike. A soldier with a clipboard near the gate gave Valentine a curious look but didn't move to intervene.

They got out of the way of traffic and stood under a yew.

"David-" she said, hard and quiet. "I'm so sorry about that. I've been stupid."

"Molly-it's not possible."

"Of course it's not possible. David, there's so much you don't know. About Edward's father."

Obviously there was, if Molly wasn't willing to call him her husband. . . .

"Molly, it's not my business. But how?"

"I told you, I was stupid," she repeated. "I... I didn't show you when you visited that time, but I've got a drawer with some pictures of you. That old scarf of yours you gave me that winter in Minnesota. Two paper clippings too, one showing you getting a decoration, or was it a promotion? It was while you were fighting in Texas. I keep the letters from you in there too. It's not like a shrine or anything. I've just always wanted you to do well with your Cause."

"I still don't see the stupid part," Valentine said.

"Edward got to the age where he got snoopy. He was poking around in the drawer and saw all the stuff they'd written about you. He said he remembered you being at our house, God knows how."

"He called me his father," Valentine said.

"Yes. I don't keep pictures of his father around the house. I thought, What'll it hurt if I shave the truth a little? If things had fallen together a little differently, you might have been."

Valentine, who'd calmly given orders with the gigantic shells of a massive Grog cannon called the Crocodile making the earth ripple beneath his feet, stood dumbstruck.

"Oh, it doesn't matter any more." She wiped the corners of her eyes.

"Here," she said, passing him a packet extracted from her overcoat. "Three chamois.

They're the best Texas kid I could find. I embroidered your initials into the corner. Not like my mom could do, but I did my best. You can use them for your boots or guns."

Valentine didn't know what to give her. The only piece of jewelry he owned was that brass ring acquired from Seattle. "Molly, I-"

"Sorry about Edward. I can tell him the truth."

"You know my name's under something of a cloud, officially."

"Yes. I had this reporter ask me about you, by the way. I wonder how he got my name."

"A reporter?"

"For the Clarion. His name's Qwait. Ever met him?"

The column had finally passed. Valentine felt the eyes of the small crowd who'd turned out in the rain focus on them. "No. It's not important. I'll leave Edward to your judgment. I'm honored, in a way." He paused. "I need to catch up to my men. I'll write you, if I get back."

"When you get back," she said. "You won in Texas. You'll do the same in Louisiana-or wherever you're really going."

Molly always was smart, or maybe just sensitive to lies.

He trotted back across the road and retrieved his horse.

"I'm sorry, Momma," Edward said.

"Edward, there's nothing for you to be sorry about. I should be saying sorry to you."

Mrs. Long stepped back, staring at him as though wishing to shorten him by at least the length of his shins.

Valentine wondered what he could leave Edward with. He opened a shirt pocket and took out his battered old compass.

"Edward, do you know what this is?" he asked.

"An officer compass."

"An officer's compass, yes. With one of these and a good map, you're never lost." He handed it to the boy and mounted.

"Thank you, Father," Edward said, wide-eyed again.

"He's got your hair," Mrs. Long said, approving for a change.

Molly tightened his girth. "You're good, Major," she said.

"Good God, man, kiss her good-bye," Mrs. Long huffed. "What's this world coming to?"

Molly blushed. Valentine had never kissed a woman from saddleback before. It wasn't as easy as it looked in the movies; he almost fell on top of her.

"Uh. Thanks," Molly squeaked.

Valentine rode on in the tangled tracks of the column, trying to catch up. He passed a member of the general's color guard dumping rainwater out of his drumhead.

Irony. That's what it was. He had a daughter in the Caribbean who thought he was an uncle, and a son in St. Louis that ninety-nine out of a hundred would insist was an abomination and demand to be destroyed. Now this tousle-haired boy was calling him Daddy. Or Father, when he remembered his manners.

God is just, but that doesn't mean he lacks humor, Father Max used to say.

"Amen," Valentine muttered, clicking his horse into a trot.