AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Valentine joined Duvalier at the fire.
"What the hell is that, Val?" she asked, fingering the finely patterned knit trim on the top robe.
"It's the nicest thing I have that fits me. Some Moondagger's dress-up outfit."
"I've seen those before," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "That's what they wear when they have a date with a Reaper. They treat it like a wedding."
Valentine searched her eyes for some hint of a joke. She did sometimes put him on.
"No joke," she supplied.
"Well, it's still an attractive ensemble," Valentine said. "I like how it looks, so what the hell."
"Your funeral," Duvalier said.
Lambert finished making her introductions, and everyone sat. Valentine sat opposite Lambert with Patel on one side and Duvalier on the other, with the Logistics Commandoes near them. Mrs. O'Coombe was in the place of honor to Lambert's right.
Patel fiddled with his array of silverware. "Which is the one to clean the grease from one's lips, Major?" he asked quietly.
"You can dip your fingers in the fingerbowl and touch them to your lips when you're done eating," Valentine said under his breath.
Lambert, as host, got the Logistics Commandoes talking about their difficulty finding even food staples, with Southern Command currency worthless here and what was left of Colonel Bloom's booty pile diminishing rapidly.
"They want gold, or Kurian bank guarantees, or valuables for trade," one of the Kentuckians said. "We're out of all the usual stuff we trade. Our depots don't have dynamite or two-way radios; not even paper and ink or razor blades."
"The vote didn't change nothing," his friend added.
"We could send a few Wolves with the LCs on their next run, sir," Patel said. "Give them a choice of Southern Command scrip or lead."
Valentine was tempted. "No."
"Been done before, Major," Patel said.
The dishes came out. It was a meager dinner, "ration beef" and seasoned patties made from falafel and corn that would probably be allocated to the pigs on Mrs. O'Coombe's ranch.
Lambert spoke up. "We're trying to teach these recruits that just because you've got a uniform and a gun, whatever you can grab is not yours for the taking. We have to set an example. Tighten our belts."
"We'll be eating our belts before winter's up, at this rate," the third Logistics Commando said.
"Mister Valentine," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation regarding the supply difficulties. I'm traveling with a substantial amount of gold and Kurian Bills of Guarantee."
Duvalier choked on her apple juice.
"I've dealt on both sides of the border often enough to know that one needs hard assets and negotiables to overcome certain bureaucratic difficulties."
"Excuse me, madam, but where did you get bills?" Valentine asked. Bills were certificates guaranteeing "employment, useful or otherwise" for a set period, usually five or ten years. They were extremely difficult to forge. Some said the seals acted in much the same manner as a brass ring, and they were very valuable in the Kurian Zone. Many an old-timer would trade his entire life's accumulation for a five-year certificate.
She read Patel's scowl. "If you think I trade cattle on both sides of Nomansland out of greed, you're wrong, sir. I sometimes find it useful to bribe for or buy what I cannot obtain in the Free Republics."
If she was in a giving vein, Valentine did not want to spoil her mood with accusations. He tapped Patel in the ankle. "Of course we'd be grateful for your assistance. What can you spare?"
"I can give you six thousand C-coin in gold and six Kurian five-year bills. You will, of course, sign a promissory note that I may redeem back at Fort Smith for their cash value, assessed per Logistic Commando fair market pricing of whichever month is current when I turn them in."
Southern Command, perpetually starved for precious metals, would be thrilled to have Mrs. O'Coombe show up demanding hundred-dollar gold coins by the roll. Frontier posts kept gold on hand for smugglers coming out of the Kurian Zone with antibiotics or computer chips or hard intelligence, and they'd be loath to part with it for nothing but a promissory note from a written-off outpost.
How would the loan change the status of Mrs. O'Coombe on the post? The men would learn she was buying their corn-meal and chickens and bacon, one way or another. Suppose she started issuing them orders, as though they were her bunkhouse cowpunchers?
"Dangerous to be traveling with that much gold, ma'am," Patel said, breaking in on Valentine's thoughts. Obvious thing to say. Perhaps Patel was buying him time to think it over.
