Free Valentine's Exile by E.E. Knight

was going full blast,” a nurse said, rearranging the cap on her brunette hair, “I would have brought my makeup.”
    Valentine pulled some bills out of his pocket and passed them to the head nurse. “For additional medical supplies. You can probably find what you need at the PX-wagons. If not, it looked like the strippers had plenty to spare.”
    â€œEwwww,” another nurse said.
    â€œOh, lighten up, Nicks,” the head nurse said. “You’re on first watch, then. I’ll bring you a plate.”
    The men were already clustering around Post. “Great, great,” Valentine heard Post saying. “Food’s good. Only problem is, I was wounded in my right leg. They took the healthy one off.”
    â€œJust like ’em,” one of the more gullible Razors said, before he saw what the others were laughing at.
    The male attendant kept various proffered bottles and cups away from Post’s mouth. “I want to hear some music,” Post said. “Let’s get Narcisse’s wheelie-stool out and we’ll dance.”
    â€œRazors!” the men shouted as they lifted the gurney and bore it toward the bandstand.
    â€œThat’s a nice thing you’re doing for your captain, Major,” the nurse they called Nicks said. “He’s lucky to have you.”
    â€œI’m the lucky one,” Valentine said.
    Black Lightning lived up to their reputation. Valentine wasn’t sophisticated enough with music to say whether they were “country” or “rock and roll” or “fwap” to use early-twenty-first century categories. They were energetic—and loud. So much so that he kept to the back and observed. The crowd listened or danced as the mood struck them, all facing the stage, which was just as well because the men outnumbered the women by six to one or so.
    The nurses kept close to Post, who had a steady stream of well-wishers, but seemed to make themselves agreeable to the boys.
    Boys. Valentine startled at the appellation. At twenty-seven he could hardly be labeled old, but he sometimes felt it when he passed a file of new recruits. Southern Command had filled out the Razors with kids in need of a little experience—the regiment had never been meant to be a frontline unit in the Dallas siege—and they’d gotten it at terrible cost.
    Or maybe it was just that the younger folks had the energy to enjoy the band. Most of the older men sat as they ate or smoked or drank, enjoying the night air and the companionship of familiar faces. A photographer took an occasional picture of those who’d been decorated that morning. Everyone had taken the news of the Razors’ breakup well—
    â€œWhat a surprise. Major Valentine alone with his thoughts,” a female voice said in his ear.
    Valentine jumped. Duvalier stood just behind him as though she’d been beamed there from the Star Trek books of his youth. She wore a pair of green, oversized sunglasses, some cheap kid’s gewgaw from the trade wagons, and when the photographer pointed the camera at them, she had a sudden coughing fit as the flash fired.
    â€œDidn’t know you were back.”
    â€œAfter all this time, you still haven’t figured it out, have you? I don’t like my comings and goings to be noticed.” Valentine noticed her slurring her words a little. He’d never known Duvalier to have more than a single glass of anything out of politeness—and even that was usually left unfinished.
    â€œI thought you hated parties,” Valentine said.
    â€œI do, but I like to go anyway, and hate them with someone. ”
    â€œYou dressed up.”
    Duvalier wore tight shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and what looked to be thigh-high stockings in a decorative brocade. Her battered hiking boots just made the rest of her look better. “Wishing I hadn’t. Some of your horntoads thought I was here professionally.”
    â€œServes