Valentine felt for the young man. Dorian had stepped across a terrible threshold far too young.
"You followed orders and did what had to be done, Dorian," Valentine said. "Better than thirty people are going to live to a fine old age because you're a good shot. Remember that."
The youth nodded dumbly, and his father nudged him back toward the high saddles.
Duvalier embraced him with one of her characteristic hugs, half handshake and half lover's embrace. She nuzzled the bristle on his chin.
"I'll see that they get back all right. Any orders for me back in Henderson?"
"Be careful. I think if the Kurians move on us, it'll be from the Ordnance. You could check the rail lines up that way."
"Can do," she said.
"I won't be gone long. I'm just going to give my report, see about supply and replacement, and return."
She slipped away as though bored with the good-bye, and Valentine returned to supervising the river embarkation.
Javelin had left Southern Command with bands playing and people cheering and tinfoil on their heads.
Its wounded returned under cover of darkness, hauled across the Mississippi in some of Southern Command's Skeeter Fleet-twin-engined outboards ready to make wake at the first sign of trouble.
No crowds met them on the western shores, just a deputation from Forward Operating Base Rally's commander at the edge of the Missouri bootheel.
Colonel Pizzaro looked incredulous when Valentine announced that he'd been returned with fresh from a hard-fought victory in Western Kentucky. Valentine handed over a sealed report to Southern Command from Colonel Bloom, now in command of what was left of the expedition to the Appalachians.
"Don't be stingy with the steaks and beer," Valentine said. "They walked a hard trail. They deserve a few luxuries with their laurels."
Pizzaro cleared his throat. "Tell me, Valentine. Don't hold back. How bad was it over there? Papers are playing it down or calling it a catastrophe."
"Could have gone better," Valentine said. "But it wasn't a disaster. We've gained allies, just not where we expected. I'd call it a major victory for the Cause."
"He's a good man, but kind of an oddball," one of Pizzaro's staff said to a corporal in a voice he probably thought too quiet for Valentine to hear. "Always full of fancy ideas about working with Grogs and stuff."
Pizzaro snorted. "Victory? Not according to the Clarion headlines. Or are you aiming for a nice long rest somewhere quiet with lots of watercolor paint?"
"It was a win for the good guys, Colonel."
"You're selling that at headquarters?" Pizzaro asked. "I wish you luck."
Southern Command Mississippi Operational Area Headquarters, the second week of November: The architects who designed the Mall at Turtle Creek in Jonesboro would still recognize their structure, though they'd be surprised to see some of the renovations caused by war and necessity.
One of the anchor stores has been hollowed out and turned into a vast machine shop for the repair and renovation of valuable electronics, and the rest of the big box stores serve as warehousing. The smaller shops have been converted to training classrooms, meeting areas, offices, break rooms, a medical center with a pharmacy, even a kennel for the bomb sniffers and guard dogs. Only the food court is still more or less recognizable; if anything, it is a little more interesting, thanks to cases displaying unit histories, photographs, and citations. And some of the hardy palms planted inside by the builders have survived the mall's looting, deterioration, and restoration.
Most of the exterior doors have been welded shut, of course, and netting and silent antiaircraft guns dot the roof. Barbed wire encircles the parking lots scattered with buses, trucks, and staff four-wheelers and motorcycles ready for use and dispatch.
Of course, the polished floors are patched and the ceilings are being rebuilt in some areas to repair minor earthquake damage the mall received in 2022.
David Valentine, having passed through the security station and visitors' lobby taking up the old bookstore, idles with a yellowed copy of French military history on an upholstered chair that smells like cigars and mildew and body odor, his thumb smeared with ink for an ID record and his bad leg stretched out where it won't interfere with passersby. He had enough pocket money for a bagel and a glass of sweet tea at the little cafe for visitors waiting to be met.
He fights off a yawn as he waits.
On the other side of the old store, security staff search and inspect those passing in and out of the headquarters, not a yawn to be seen. The Kurians have their own versions of Cats.
The ink had dried and the last crumbs of the bagel disappeared by the time General Lehman's adjutant appeared. The staffer might have been a living mannequin of crisp cotton and twill. Valentine felt scruffy shaking hands with him. All Valentine had managed in the washroom was to comb his hair out and wash his face and hands.
Perhaps it wasn't the chair that was so odiferous after all.
"You can just take that book if you like," the adjutant suggested. "It's all Southern Command library. I'm sure you know where to drop it."