She smiled, dazzling white teeth against those pink lips. "More dangerous than Reapers, Mister Patel?"
The men had to be fed, one way or another. The only other option would be to go in and take it at gunpoint, and they weren't pirates. At least not yet.
Valentine weighed his options. Once Kentucky got itself organized, Fort Seng would petition for support from the Assembly. Though Valentine wondered if his forces, being neither fish nor fowl, so to speak, would find themselves divested of support from both the rebels in Kentucky and his own Southern Command, especially once General Martinez took over and instituted his new "defensive" policies.
Mrs. O'Coombe waited, her hands clasped decorously in her lap. She'd only nibbled politely at the meager fare.
"Madam, I accept your very generous offer on behalf of my men," Lambert said, her train of thought arriving at the decision platform.
"Always willing to help the Cause, Colonel," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "Now, Mister Valentine, perhaps you will attend to the matter of facilitating me in the effort of finding my son. I would like your advice on routes and what sort of personnel we should bring."
"A complicated question, madam," Valentine said. "It depends on supply capacity in your vehicles, what sort of fuel they need . . ."
Duvalier hummed quietly:
The choice tan, the bought man,
Prisoner 'tween golden sheets . . .
It was a pop tune from just before the cataclysm in 2022 and had been prominently listed on most barroom virtual disc-jockey machines.
Patel let off an explosive fart and excused himself, but it stopped Duvalier's quiet amusement.
Well, if Valentine was going to take her gold, he'd get more for it than butter and eggs. Valentine hemmed and hawed his way through the conversation about the trip to recover her son-and others, of course-and as usual struck upon an idea while his brain was busy fencing with Mrs. O'Coombe.
Valentine escaped Mrs. O'Coombe the next day, pleading that he had to go into Evansville to see about purchasing supplies.
Evansville had an impressive city hall thanks to the region's ample limestone, but it reminded Valentine of a church with long-dead parishioners. Most of the offices were empty.
They should have used the empty rooms for the overflowing waiting room. Luckily, his uniform brought him right to the attention of the city's governor.
How they arrived at that title Valentine didn't know then, but he later learned that since Evansville considered itself a different state than Kentucky even though it was now part of the Kentucky Freehold, by definition it should have a governor as chief executive.
In this case the governor was a former member of the underground named Durand. Professor Durand, actually; he ran a secret college devoted to preserving classical Western education from the tailoring, trimming, and alteration of the Kurian Order.
He reminded Valentine a bit of Trotsky in his dress and glasses, minus the brains and the talent and the vigor.
"Can I help you, Major Valentine?" Durand asked. He was sorting papers into four piles on his desk, and he glanced up at Valentine as he stood before his desk.
Valentine would have sworn in court that he recognized some of the documents from his last visit three weeks ago, before the action at the power station, when he unsuccessfully pleaded for the Evansville provisional government to purchase supplies for Fort Seng.
"You've done so much already, Governor," Valentine said. "I'm simply here to pay my respects before we depart. A last duty call before I plunge into getting the camp relocated."
"Depart?" Durand asked, looking vaguely alarmed and suddenly less interested in the paperwork on his desk.
Valentine examined the walls of the office. A few corners of torn-off Kurian NUC enthusiasm posters remained between the windows. "Yes, the fort will be relocated. For security reasons I can't disclose our destination, but the town's leadership has made a most generous offer, and strategically it makes sense-we'll be closer to the center mass of Kentucky, able to operate on interior lines. . . . You know the military advantages."
"But . . . the underground has word of an armored column north of here. Cannon, armored cars, riot buses, gunabagoes . . ."
"Yes, how is the city militia progressing in its training? The key is to brush back the infantry support. Then it's much easier to take out the armor."
"You've made so many improvements to your camp, I understand. Hot water, electricity . . ."
"Perhaps your militia can relocate and take advantage of all our hard work. True, that would mean a longer response time if you needed them to deal with, say, some airdropped Reapers."
"What is this other town offering you?"
"Offering? I'm doing my duty, Professor, not engaging in bid taking."