"Neither of you ever quit," Styachowski said, looking down at Ahn-Kha. The Grog grasped a seventy-pound sandbag in each hand and stuffed them at the bottom of the levee. "He's like a machine; I don't worry about him. You, on the other hand-"
"Can take care of myself. As you said, I spend my time shouting, not moving earth."
"Then why do you have mud up to your neck?"
"Clumsiness."
"I've seen you walk across a two-strand rope bridge without breaking stride. I doubt it."
"You'll spend eight hours in your bunk, Styachowski. That's an order."
She lifted her chin and opened her mouth-her cropped hair would have bristled were it not wet-but no sound came out for a second. "Yes, sir," she finally said. She waited to turn; Post and a corporal were trotting along the rim of the drainage ditch.
"Sir," Post said excitedly. "We've got a big bulge up next to where it's reinforced on that old park bench. "It looks like it'll give way any minute."
"Take Rodger's squad and shore it up," Valentine said, leaning around the wide shoulders of his lieutenant to take a look.
"It's in Captain Urfurt's section," Post added quietly, referring to the Quisling responsible for the length east of Valentine's. "He's dealing with a broken pump, hasn't noticed it and none of his prisoners are anxious to bring it to his attention. Know what I mean?"
"Shore it up, Will."
"But-"
"I'm not used to giving orders twice," Valentine said, his voice not a shout, but not conversational either. He'd never raised his voice to Post before, outside the din of battle. He rounded on Styachowski like a bar brawler who's felled one opponent and is looking to loosen some teeth in another. "Speaking of which, why aren't you in your bunk, Styachowski?"
"Sir," they both chirped, backing away to obey.
Valentine raised his mug. Some artist had painted a yellow star on it, and added "We Build New Columbia: Crossroads of the Future" in neat brushstrokes before glazing it. The incessant rain had already chilled the coffee. It tasted like dry leaves and old gum.
A whooping shout of joy came from his section of levee. Valentine saw two bedraggled men-the one with a hat belonged to his group, the other had the orange POW stenciling. Both men had skin the color of milk chocolate, long, handsome faces and similar silhouettes as they embraced.
Valentine had feared a moment like this. "Ahn-Kha," he said as he trotted over to the pair.
"Lord bless, Dake, I knew you made it out of the pocket. What gives, slick?" the one in the POW fatigues said.
Valentine thought his soldier's name might be Abica. Dake Abica sounded right in his head.
He heard Ahn-Kha's squelching footsteps behind. "You there, Abica," he shouted, as a sergeant hurried to interpose. "Come over here."
Abica put a hand on the arm of his relative-
"Alone!" Valentine shouted. "Ahn-Kha, keep an eye on that man."
"Be cool, Clip," Abica said. He approached Valentine.
The sergeant, a former supply clerk named Roybesson, joined him, instinctively placing herself facing both Valentine and Abica.
"Sorry, sir," Abica said. "That's my brother Cli-Clipton. Third Cavalry regiment, light artillery. He's smart and-"
"I don't need his Q file, Abica," Valentine said. "Roybesson, if those two speak again, you'll wish you'd been bit with Ravies Six. Got me?"
She blanched but answered quickly enough. "Yes, sir."
"Sir, we could-" Abica began.
"Private, we're going to talk to your brother in my tent.
You, me and Ahn-Kha. If you don't do exactly as I say, Ahn-Kha'll kill your brother and you'll spend the rest of our time here in a tiger cage. Near the dike, so if it breaks we'll get a nice loud warning before you drown."