* * *
The physical was more like an athletic contest against a stopwatch than a doctor's evaluation. First they tested day and night visual acuity, then color vision (he had trouble with reds and greens, as usual). Then they watched him climb a nearly vertical slope toward a red demolition flag. He ran laps and they took blood and had him breathe into a lung volume tube. He was measured for standing vertical jump (eleven feet, well short of his record of sixteen his first year as a Cat). Then they ran him through a maze of swinging tennis balls, waving back and forth at the end of various lengths of string. He had to roll, jump, and dodge at intervals measured in split seconds.
"Eighty-five percent", the doctor said as her assistant turned off the machine that agitated the wooden rigging. "You Cats are something".
"Are there any others here?" Valentine asked, watching her through the mass of waving lines and greenish balls.
"No. The last one disappeared in the KZ a couple years ago. There are some Wolves with the forward observers".
Then Wilson took him to the professor, Delta Group's archivist and resident historian, a sagging mass of a man with a neatly trimmed gray beard, who sat in an office with three humming dehumidifiers and piles of paper atop piles of file cabinets. After a short lament that he was forever being called away from the History of the Establishment of the Kurian Order, he briefed Valentine on Pacific Command's resurgence.
In the last dozen years or so they'd gone from being a shabby group of guerrillas hiding in the mountains to the Terrors of the Cascades, thanks to a single man. "Mr. Adler", now "the Old Man", walked out of the Kurian Zone, met a patrol under one of the few aggressive commanders in the "Seahawks" as they styled themselves, said something about his family being killed, and offered to guide the troops to an unattended depot where they could get better weapons and explosives, provided they'd use them on a Quisling named Doorward, who'd betrayed him. Doorward turned out to be a soldier in the Seattle Order and a recent Ringwinner. They ambushed him as he pulled into the garage of his mansion, then got away clean.
"He's one of those curious men who can sense when a Reaper's in the neighborhood", the professor explained. Valentine felt a prickle of recognition. Affinity, perhaps.
"Mr. Adler" never put on a uniform, but just directed to target after target. Success swelled their ranks, a Lifeweaver arrived to assist, and soon they were picking off isolated Kurian Towers.
"Same Lifeweaver still with th... us?" Valentine asked.
"Oh yes", the professor said. "He's an odd one, but he can make Bears, sure enough".
Then the "clearing" operations started - "Action Groups" of Bears who hit the Kurian Zone and caused so much damage their targets were unproductive for months or years to come.
"Hard on the poor SOBs under the Kurians. But that's the strength of the constrictor".
The "constrictor", as the professor explained it, was a steadily tightening ring around the Seattle area, denying resources to what had been one of the largest and best-organized Kurian Zones in North America. Now the Seattle KZ was a shadow of its former self, and the awful Chief Kurian at his refuge in the tower that dwarfed even the Space Needle was increasingly isolated. Thanks to the quick-moving and hard-hitting Action Groups, he'd been bereft of several of his key subordinate lords.
"They give up and relocate, if they get a chance. Mr. Adler's got a good sense for when one's getting set to bug out, that's for sure. He nudges them right along".
Valentine got his own room with a private toilet and shower, and eventually learned his way to the cafeteria, gymnasium, laundry, and underground range.
The Bears were a big, bluff collection. Canadians and Native Americans added their own accents and mannerisms. Several had tattoos that read doer on their upper arms, sometimes pierced by a dripping dagger. They felt more a military machine than the atavistic Bears of Southern Command, but maybe it was because there were so many of them grouped together. They were proud of their position.
"Never thought I'd make it", one told him as they sat and sweated in the gym's wood-walled sauna. "First time out, I thought my heart would burst. But I'm used to it now".
"What have you been up against?" Valentine asked.
"Mostly Seattle Guard types. They run away when an Action Column roars into town. They've seeded the waters with some Grogs - you got to watch it around rivers and so on".
"Big mouths?" Valentine asked. He'd run into them in Chicago.
"We call them Sleekees. That's the noise they make when they're hopping around on land. Sleekee, slee-kee", he wheezed in imitation.
"What about the Reapers?"
"Not so much. Sure, they'll defend a tower or a hole, if their master's inside. I've heard it's bad going up against a bunker full of those dropedcocks, but Adler's all about Jew-Ginsu. Hit them where they ain't".
* * *
Valentine's gyro arrived and after some technicians partially took it apart to learn the design, he started doing practice flights over the backcountry. An overzealous Resistance machine gunner tried to take him down - Valentine dived behind the tree line to avoid the tracers and came home with brush in his landing gear, but refueling gave him a chance to catch up with Gide.
The militia just got issued green caps with yellow safety tape at the back, and the rest of her uniform consisted of a big green field jacket, construction trousers, and some sad-looking sneakers made out of tire tread.
"Someone swiped my boots", she said. "The women have a hell of a time with the footwear. The rifle's a joke. Worn-down barrel".
"Do your duty".
"I do", she said. "Your friends from the Holes have an interesting definition of duty, byways".