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"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.
She smiled, dazzling white teeth against those pink lips. "More dangerous than Reapers, Mister Patel?"
The men had to be fed, one way or another. The only other option would be to go in and take it at gunpoint, and they weren't pirates. At least not yet.
Valentine weighed his options. Once Kentucky got itself organized, Fort Seng would petition for support from the Assembly. Though Valentine wondered if his forces, being neither fish nor fowl, so to speak, would find themselves divested of support from both the rebels in Kentucky and his own Southern Command, especially once General Martinez took over and instituted his new "defensive" policies.
Mrs. O'Coombe waited, her hands clasped decorously in her lap. She'd only nibbled politely at the meager fare.
"Madam, I accept your very generous offer on behalf of my men," Lambert said, her train of thought arriving at the decision platform.
"Always willing to help the Cause, Colonel," Mrs. O'Coombe said. "Now, Mister Valentine, perhaps you will attend to the matter of facilitating me in the effort of finding my son. I would like your advice on routes and what sort of personnel we should bring."
"A complicated question, madam," Valentine said. "It depends on supply capacity in your vehicles, what sort of fuel they need . . ."
Duvalier hummed quietly:
The choice tan, the bought man,
Prisoner 'tween golden sheets . . .
It was a pop tune from just before the cataclysm in 2022 and had been prominently listed on most barroom virtual disc-jockey machines.
Patel let off an explosive fart and excused himself, but it stopped Duvalier's quiet amusement.
Well, if Valentine was going to take her gold, he'd get more for it than butter and eggs. Valentine hemmed and hawed his way through the conversation about the trip to recover her son-and others, of course-and as usual struck upon an idea while his brain was busy fencing with Mrs. O'Coombe.
