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Valentine brushed dirt off his kneecaps. "I wondered what my father's life was like fighting for the Cause, what made him give up and go live in the Northwoods. Now the only thing I wonder is how he lasted so long. There were other reasons. I believe in the Cause. I've got no time for the 'it's over, we've lost, let's just weather the storm, fighting makes everything worse' crowd. The Cause is no less just for being lost. Then again, being special appealed to me- meeting with the Lifeweavers, learning about other worlds."
He wanted to go on, to tell her that he worried that the Lifeweavers had also unlocked the cage of a demon somewhere inside him, to use her metaphor-even more, fed and prodded the demon so it was good and roused when it came time to fight their joined war. The demon, not under his bed but sharing his pillow, was a conscienceless killer who exulted in the death of his enemies at night and then reverted to a bookish, quiet young man when the fighting was over. He worried that the David Valentine who agonized his way through the emotional hangovers afterward, who sometimes stopped the killing, was vanishing. He could look at corpses now, even corpses he'd created-felling men like stands of timber-with no more emotion than when he saw cord-wood stacked on a back porch. It made him feel hollow, or dead, or bestial. Or all three at once.
A voice from above: "Clear from here on ..."
Valentine saw the flicker of a flashlight beam and got to his feet, reaching up into the dark to feel for the stairs above.
"Hellooo-" he shoulted as he helped Styachowski up.
"Stay put. On the way," a male voice called back from above.
Soldiers with flashlights, one carrying a bag with a big red cross on it, came down the stairs.
"Hey, it's Re-Major Valentine," one called to the other.
"That was fast digging," Styachowski said.
"There's not much of a blockage," the one with the medical kit said. "Just a wall collapse and some dirt to climb over. Ol' Solon built his foundations well."
Styachowski straightened her dust-covered uniform. "We're fine," she said, reverting to her usual brisk tone. "Let's get those lights in the generator room and see where the trouble is."
The last of her warmth left his skin as Valentine nodded. She turned, and he followed her and the soldiers into the generator room.
They had electricity within the hour, but Valentine wasn't sure how much longer he could transmit, so he composed a final report to Southern Command of two bare lines. He walked it down to the radio room himself.
Jimenez had the headset on. Jimenez took it off and threw it on the desk, upending a coffee cup. He didn't bother to wipe up the spill.
"They left Hot Springs yesterday. The official bulletin just went out."
"Then what's wrong? They're only fifty miles away. There's nothing between us and them."
"They're turning northwest. Heading for Fort Smith."
Valentine patted him on the shoulder. "There's a lot of Kurians in Fort Smith. Let's hope they get them."
"Right. Across mountains."
He placed his final transmission to Southern Command on the coffee-covered desk.
WE STAYED. WE DIED.
* * * *
The shelling from the Crocodile went on for four more days. It was the closest thing to insanity Valentine had ever known. Nothing had any meaning except where the next shell would land. Styachowski's guns couldn't reach the Crocodile. One by one they were put out of action.
The radio room was buried by a direct hit, and Jimenez with it. The hospital had to go underground when a near miss blew down its southern wall. Beck died on the third day, torn to shreds as he turned the knocked-down remnants of Solon's Residence into a final series of trenches and fire lanes. Styachowski took over for him, pulling back what was left of her mortars and placing them in a tight ring of dug-out basements, along with a few shells they were harboring for the final assault.
They knew it was coming when the Crocodile's fire stopped. Thirty minutes went by, and the men garnered at their firing posts. An hour went by, and they began to transfer wounded.
The single remaining pack radio, kept operating by Post, crackled to life. For the past two days it had been rigged to the generator recovered from the kitchens. Post whistled and shouted for Valentine across the ruins. He hopped over a fallen Doric column, a piece of decor Solon fancied, and climbed down the wooden ladder to Post's dugout. A shell or two pursued him. Just because the Crocodile was silent didn't mean the mortars on Pulaski Heights quit firing.
"Urgent call for you, sir," Post said. "Scanner picked it up."
"Le Sain? Are you there, Le Sain?" the radio crackled, on Southern Command's frequency.
"Go ahead; not reading you very well."
"It's a field radio." Valentine heard distant gunfire over the speaker. "It's me, Colonel. The Shadowboxer."
