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Valentine had heard of some kind of specially trained bug that excreted Kurian cocoon.
"No Reapers?"
"The Cat took one jumping from a roof. She gave us the all-clear even with her bum foot. I sent the Bears right for the antenna with demo gear. There were some sentries but we disposed of them with flash-bangs and blades."
Valentine wished he could have been there. Or better yet, peering into the Kurian's eye cluster when it saw the Bears hurrying up.
"Did you blow the nest?"
"Yes, but it ran before then. Went sliding down one of the support wires or whatever you call 'em, suh," Gamecock said. "Gutsy little shit."
"You saw it?"
"No, Silvertip did. A Reaper hauled outta town like he was carrying hot coals. Silvertip managed to trip him up."
Sivertip. Big, brave Bear, that. "Very commendable," Valentine said, wondering if he sounded pompous.
"I don't train my Bears for dumb. Reaper running for the line like that? He looped a satchel charge on him. Of course, the thing animating the Reaper had us on his mind so he didn't notice. It dropped onto the Reaper's head and shoulders-looked like an umbrella collapsing on him."
"Looked back at me with all them eyes," Silvertip said.
"I don't think they're all eyes."
Silvertip shrugged. "Well, anyway, it was watching me take pot shots, carried like a baby with tentacles, when the charge blew. Reaper's head went straight up like a rocket."
"Best stick I ever saw, suh," Gamecock said.
"What happened after that?" Valentine asked.
"We knocked off three more Reapers pretty easy-sprayed fire into their shins and then took them out with explosives. The Moondaggers started tracking us on the way back, but the Wolves got a twist on them. Those boys are cruel but they sure don't know much about fighting."
All that remained was the decision about Red Dog. Valentine had him returned to his old company for a last meal together. He explained the situation and asked for a volunteer to shoot the poor hound.
"The whole brigade likes Red Dog, sir," Rand said. "Not the mutt's fault he's a Kurian spy."
"It's just a dog," Valentine said. "I'll kill it myself." He'd had to kill dogs before. Even gut them and stew them.
Glass stood up. "That Kurian's dead, right? Whatever connection he had is gone."
"Maybe the Miskatonic would want to study it," Rand said.
"It's too much of a risk," Valentine said. "One of you might fall asleep petting him and wake up kissing a fused grenade."
"I'll take the chance, sir," Glass said. "Like the lieutenant said, the Miskatonic should have a look at him. I'm stubborn and Ford and Chevy, well, I don't know that even a Kurian could make them much more confused unless there are bullets flying, food to be eaten, or a she-Grog around."
"What about you?"
"What, sir, 'n have me lose faith in the Cause? That train long since departed. Besides, I'd like to have a word or two with one of those Kurian sucks."
Valentine looked at Red Dog, utterly uncognizant of his peril but evidently just as happy to be with the old company as parked outside headquarters with the engineering gear.
"I guess one more ex-Quisling won't hurt. And I don't know how Glass's attitude can get much worse."
The men whistled and hooted and tossed scraps to the dog.
The Banks of the Green River, September: The fortunes of javelin are at their lowest ebb. Help from the legworm ranchers has all but dried up. Only the underground dares to make contact, informing Southern Commands forces where they've hidden supplies.
The trickle of foodstuffs, plus the usual resourcefulness of soldiers to find food even on the march, allows Javelin to stay together in body.
