"Well, if it involves hunting a Reaper or knocking the Iowa Guard back to their corn silos, I'll grab my clean underwear and rifle, sir. This gin rummy playacting war is for the legworms, if you know what I mean."
Valentine didn't know what Corporal James meant, but he soon found out over a plate of salted pork and some unusually decent carrot soup.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not a malcontent or an insubordinate," James said. "But since Martinez started running the show, the only time our rifles are out of their sheaths is for inspection, Major. The shoe leather and coats are better these days, and the food's improved so much you might think we're back home with Mama. I'll give him this. General Martinez is crazy about food quality, he has every cook between Jasper and the Rio Grande shaking in his apron when his staff blows in. It's better. No more runnin' and gropin'."
Valentine recognized the old Wolf slang for running for a bush and groping for something to wipe with.
"You can call me Val, James. When I'm off my feet, we can drop the formalities."
"Well, there's someone came in special to meet you, sir. Major Brostoff. Said he used to serve with you under LeHavre in Zulu Company. He'll dock my ears if I keep you any longer, he's looking forward to sitting down with a drink or six with you."
rails: North America is once again a land of trails. With so much wartime destruction and neglect to land corridors, outside of an individual Kurian Zone or the free territories, getting from here to there proceeds mostly in fits and starts. One makes a fast, exhausting dash of long days of travel to the next safe area, where packs can be refilled, animals rested and exchanged, fuel and munitions purchased-if they're available, that is. Complex does not even begin to describe it.
It's possible to carve out a new trail, of course. One just needs the manpower to establish waypoint bases for rest and resupply. There's already a well-established trail between Southern Command and Fort Seng; the only thing that changes are the river crossing points on the Mississippi and the Tennessee. Escapees from the Kurian Zone flow one way, a trickle of replacements and supplies travels the other.
What Valentine and company propose to do has not been tried before on this scale. Their plan involves establishing a one-shot "river trail" from the Mississippi bank north of Saint Louis to Evansville. There are no substantial Kurian forts on the river between the two points, as the area largely belongs to the Grogs. While the land route would be much shorter in miles, the river will allow speed, which could prove vital for transferring a stadium full of Golden Ones without it turning into a late twenty-first-century trail of tears.
"You know, David," Brother Mark said, "there's a fine old saying ripened by the distinction of years. Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result is one definition of insanity. Which is how establishing a new freehold in the mid-South is beginning to look to these weary eyes."
The old renegade churchman smelled like mothballs and spiced aftershave to Valentine. It was an oddly comforting mixture, suggesting generations of familial secrets. He was bone tired from putting the fort back together after the air raid, seeing the worst of the wounded into the Evansville hospital, and finishing the plan with Ediyak. "I think 'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again' is even older."
The battalion officers sat in the big entrance hall to headquarters, overstuffed chairs pulled into a circle and sentries posted at the doors and windows. Lambert had finished presenting the plan she, Ediyak, and Valentine had worked out for moving whatever Golden Ones wanted to come to Kentucky.
"It might be wiser to pull back down the Ohio to the other side of the Mississippi," Brother Mark said.
Ediyak gulped and grew wide-eyed. She'd spent much of her life in the Kurian Zone, and when a churchman spoke, you listened and complied.
"The new freehold was your idea," Lambert said. "We military types, once we get hold of something, crack our heads against it until one gives way."
"Can't stop now. The Kentuckians have thrown in with us," Valentine said.
"Nobly spoken," Brother Mark said. "But we've brought with us all four horsemen, and they've had a run of the land. The Western Coal fields and much of the Pennyroyal is empty, thanks to the ravies virus."
"Depends on how you define empty," Devlin said, attending to represent their nearest allies, the Gunslinger Clan. "There are still a lot of legworm herds. We had a good spring for legworm leather. Maybe the cold kept parasites and rats out of the eggs, I dunno, but there's a record number of young legworms crawling. Those Wolves of yours make good hands for herding once they learn which end is which and how to move 'em along."
"They should be patrolling," Lambert grumbled. "I'll talk to Carlson about it."
"We're letting them keep some of the legworm leather from the eggs for their help. It's good for trade with just about anyone."
"We're getting away from the point. Ahn-Kha, how quickly can your people get set up here?"
"Two generations ago the Kurians promised us a rich, green land with good rock for building. I've never seen such limestone as is in the hills here. Rich deposits of silver sand, err, what is your word-"
"Mica," Lambert said. "Used for some glasses, drywall, electrical insulation, and so on," Lambert said. "Evansville's still doing a little of that on a shoestring."
"Mica. Thank you, my colonel," Ahn-Kha said. "This is good land. Very good. Certainly a milder climate than shivering Omaha. One season of growing, another of building, and we will have the beginnings of roots."
"The whole history of Kentucky is nothing but immigrants," Devlin said. "We're flexible, as long as you let us be. We adapted to using the legworms pretty darn quick. We'd rather have big fellas like Uncle here than the Kurians."
"Still, I'd better touch base with the provisional government and the Army of Kentucky," Lambert said. "Brother Mark, are you up for the trip?"
"My spirit never objects to seeing old friends again. My hips and shoulders, however ..."
"The hard part will be getting them to Saint Louis," Valentine said. "From there, we can use the Mississippi."
Over the next three days they finalized the plan. Valentine found himself in awe, yet again, at Lambert's command of detail. And the sheer amount of work she and her two assistants-camp scuttlebutt said she worked one until he keeled over, by which time the other had usually revived from his own marathon session. The three of them plus a secretary clerk for typing orders, produced a working plan.
Still, more had been left to chance than Lambert liked. Valentine had learned to trust luck backed up by tactical flexibility to see himself through difficulties, which would come one way or another.