Free Valentine's Exile by E.E. Knight Page A

you right for getting cleaned up. Any bloodshed? ”
    â€œAll the ears and noses in your command are accounted for, Major. Colonel Meadows asked me to find you.”
    â€œSpeaking of finding people, I’ve yet to find anyone who saw you during our fight at the airfield.”
    She wrinkled her freckled nose. “I should hope not. Everyone but me was busy being a hero. As soon as the bombs started dropping I hid deep and dark next to a storm sewer leading off-field. You can’t outsmart a rocket.”
    â€œIf they gave out medals for survival you’d have a chestful. Speaking of which, is that the legendary red bra I see peeping out?” He reached for her cutoff shirt—
    â€œDream on, Valentine.” She grabbed his hand and gave his wrist a painful twist, then pulled him toward the barbecue pit, her hand warm in his.
    Colonel Meadows was carving pork, heaping it onto plates, and handing them out, at which point Narcisse would slather the meat with barbecue sauce and hand the plates out to the lined-up soldiers. Judging by their sticky lips, most were back for seconds.
    â€œDaveed!” Narcisse said, spinning on her stool. “This recipe I learned on Jamaica—they call it ‘jerked.’ Have some!”
    â€œIn a second, Sissy,” Meadows said. “We’re getting a drink first. Spell me, Cossack.”
    A soldier prodding the coals stood up and took the carving knife out of Meadows’ hand. Meadows tossed him the apron.
    They filled pewter mugs from a barrel at the beer tent—it was poor stuff, as Southern Command had better things to do with its soil than grow hops—and found a quiet spot away from the band. Duvalier followed with a plate at a respectful distance. She had good hearing, if not quite Valentine’s Wolf ears, and positioned herself downwind, back to the men but undoubtedly able to hear every word said.
    Some fool fired off a blue signal flare to add to the festive atmosphere. It turned the beer black inside the mugs and added deep shadows to Meadows’ eyesockets.
    â€œGreat party, sir,” Valentine said, and meant it.
    â€œWe deserve it.” Meadows was a we kind of officer. He held out his mug and Valentine touched his to it, the faint klink sounding a slightly sour note thanks to the pewter.
    â€œAn interesting letter in the courier pouch hit my desk the other day. This is as good a moment as any to tell you: They’re offering you a Hunter Staff position.”
    Valentine felt his knees give out for a moment, and he covered with a swig of beer. “Staff?”
    â€œEasy now, Val. It’s a helluva honor.”
    Duvalier brushed past him on the way to the beer tent, and gave his hip a gentle nudge with hers.
    â€œNot that you’ll have a lot of time to show off your swagger stick. I hear they work you to death.”
    Valentine understood that well enough. Southern Command operated on a general staff system that selected and then trained a small group of officers in all the subsidiary branches of service: artillery, logistics, intelligence, and so on. The highly trained cadre then served as staff inspectors or temporary replacements or taught until promoted to higher command or, in the event of a crisis, they took command of reserve units.
    The Hunters—the Wolves, Cats, and Bears of Southern Command that operated as special forces outside the borders of the Free Territory—had their own identical staff system that trained with the others and then performed similar functions with the smaller Hunter units. A couple of hitches in Wolf and Bear formations was enough for most; the veteran soldiers usually transferred to support units—or the Logistics Commandos if they still had a taste for operating in the Kurian Zone. But most still served Southern Command by belonging to ghost regiments that might be called up.
    Captain Moira Styachowski, one of the most capable officers he’d ever met, had