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"All the more reason for me to go," she said.
"Oh, Dool," Jolla said. "Why did they take your pants? I can see your shoes."
Dool tugged at an ear. "What's that, sir?"
"Your pants."
"I plain dumb forgot! They said to tell the brigade commander, 'Caught with your pants down.' I thought they were nuts. He was laying there dead in the town square. I guess they meant you to get it."
Jolla stood up. "Those were their words?"
"Yeah, caught with your pants down. I was to remind you."
"That mean something, sir?" Moytana said.
"It must just be a coincidence," Jolla said. "It's an old joke, goes back to my days at the war college. A dumb stunt I pulled."
"Has it come up recently?" Valentine asked.
"I . . . we were telling stories over cigars. Right after that fight at the railroad cut. Colonel Seng, myself, Gage was there, Karas, a few of the leaders from the legworm clans."
"I remember, sir," Nowak said. "The story about six-ass ambush. Five got away."
"And one didn't," Jolla said. "Forever branded as the one who couldn't get his pants up and tripped on his own belt."
"I wonder if there's a spy in our ranks?" Bloom asked.
"Dumb spy, to give himself away with a detail like that," Moytana said.
Or did the Kurians want everyone looking over their shoulder? Valentine wondered. They were better at sewing dissention than fighting.
* * * *
The meeting broke up and Jolla ordered Valentine to check the defensive perimeter of the camp. Everyone was nervous, so he took the precaution of using the field phones to let the next post know he was on the way as he left each post.
He was checking the west side of camp when he saw group of men. It looked like some sort of struggle. One had lit a red signal flare and held it high so the troops knew not to fire.
Valentine trotted up to the mob. They were mostly regulars from the Guard regiment.
uStop, hold there!"
"Who says?" someone in the mob called.
"Shut it, you, it's Major Valentine," a corporal said. "Sir, we caught our spy."
The mob parted and two men dragged another forward, one holding each arm. He already had a noose around his neck. The man was folded like a clasp knife, coughing, clearly gut-punched-or kicked.
They raised his face, using his scant hair as a handle. It was Brother Mark.
"He was dressed all in black. Sneaking off."
"He always dresses in black," Valentine said. "Let him go; give him some air."
"He's the spy for sure," someone called, and the group growled approval.
Valentine wondered how word of "a spy" in camp had spread so quickly. Soldiers had their own communications grapevines, especially for bad news.
"God help me," Brother Mark gasped.
