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"It's the New Realism, Valentine."
"Putting 'new' in front of anything as tenuous as a word like 'realism' sounds like an excuse rather than a strategy."
"Nevertheless," Sime said coolly, "I have to work within the parameters of the possible, just as you do."
"And you agree with this New Realism?"
"Of course not. We can't beat the Kurians playing defense."
Either Sime was an unusually artful liar or he'd finally revealed something of himself beyond an official presence. "Something's been bothering me for years," Valentine said. "I hope you don't mind if I ask."
"Shoot," Sime said.
"I've met a lot of men who shave their skulls, but your head looks . . . polished. What's your secret?"
Sime's face broke into a wide smile. He flicked his forefinger down his nose. "I'll loan you my razor and we can go over to a washbasin-"
"On you it looks distinguished. I would look like a mental patient."
"If I let my real hair grow, I'd look much older. Be proud of yours. Not enough gray yet to dismay the twenty-year-olds."
"I never had luck with twenty-year-olds, even when I was twenty," Valentine said. "Where will you go next?"
"You know that joke the Denver Freehold tells about the UFR, don't you?" Sime asked.
"What's that?"
"Too near for a penal colony, too big for an insane asylum, and too fractious to be a nation. I heard a similar joke in the Mexican desert, just not so family friendly in language. I'll return to our insane penal colony nation."
"Can't say that I like you, sir. But I'm glad you're with the team," Valentine said.
"The feeling is mutual," Sime said. "By the way, did you enjoy that soap?" The first time they'd met, when Valentine was sitting in prison awaiting trial for the murder of some Quisling prisoners, he'd complimented Sime on the unique smell of his sandalwood soap. Sime had presented him with a supply before the launch of Javelin. Valentine found it's aroma relaxing, especially when worked into a fragrant lather in a steaming field-tub of water, and had used it frequently during the retreat whenever they paused long enough for a hot bath.
"Sadly, yes. Used it up last summer."
"I've a spare bar. I'll drop it by your fort on the way out. Oh, I'm taking Moytana back with me. The new broom wants a large reserve of Wolves ready to be shifted at need, and Moytana's due for an important promotion. Besides, his replacement has arrived."
Rumor had it the Assembly would vote before the first day of winter. Valentine found a reason to hang about the convention hall, hoping to run into Brother Mark in one of his circuits.
Valentine enjoyed the late fall air, chill but sunny. It reminded him of the Octobers of his youth in Minnesota. He wondered if the chill was characteristic of Kentucky this time of year.
A rather decrepit legworm stood facing the river. It was bare of all baggage, of course. Even the heavy saddle chair had been stripped off, and sheets of plastic tarp protected the legworm from the wind. Battle pads were on the side facing the street, with VOTE FOR FREEDOM = VENGEANCE painted on the mattresslike panels in Day-Glo colors.
Valentine felt for the legworm. In cold weather, their instinct was to gather in big heaps, forming domes that warmed and protected their eggs as living nests.
This dilapidated old creature had hide hanging off every which way and looked clearly uncomfortable on asphalt, glistening probes out to smell the air.
Valentine marked an ancient plastic refuse container holding a mix of leaves and refuse, probably from the quick cleanup of the convention center. Valentine picked it up and dumped it under the legworm's front end.
Where was the legworm's pilot? He could at least feed his beast.
"Wonder which end is worse, sometimes," a delegate said as he puffed politely nearby on a cigarette.
The legworm happily sucked up the refuse. Paper would be digested as regularly as the crackling leaves.
Valentine looked down its torn, perforated side. Skin was falling away in patches from-
Nature abhors regularity, and something about the pattern on the legworm's side facing the building disturbed Valentine.
