Read Online March in Country by E.E. Knight - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: E.E. Knight
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the people around headquarters indulged her sweet tooth, affecting her digestion and making her fretting worse. She’d broken some furniture on blood-sugar rampages.
He tried to ignore Bee snuffling over his dirty clothes as he reduced his facial hair to sink litter and combed out.
Clean and feeling human again, he stopped by his desk, glanced at his in-box and the lone red flag on the Alert Map and decided everything could wait. He was curious about the new arrival at the stables.
“No mail in the diaper bag this time, Major?” asked a corporal with a tray of sandwiches and coffee on his way out.
“Afraid not. Came in from a different direction. Those sandwiches look good.”
“They’re for that spy Martinez sent. That major fella.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to know about that,” Valentine said, turning down the path to the stables.
So, the new broom at Southern Command was finally doing some whisking in Kentucky, Valentine thought. Well, he’s welcome to it. He won’t be able to complain about their use of logistical supplies. Most of the arms they were issuing to recruits were captured, the uniforms and gear were made in Evansville workshops, and the good people of Kentucky were feeding them. About all the pack trains were bringing in were bullets and medical supplies.
He took a deep breath and pretended to forget about the bad blood with General Martinez. Enemies in the Kurian Zone prowling Western Kentucky were his business, not vindictive old snapping turtles two big rivers away back at headquarters.
He took a deeper breath when he saw the woman bending over a tack-cleaning table outside the stable feed-room door. Victoria Pellwell stood at least six three. She was one of the tallest women Valentine had ever seen.
She scooped grain, corn, and nuts out of assorted livestock feed sacks, filling a flour barrel. Her civilian attire was rather striking—sun-faded red denim from neck to ankle, short, lace-up riding boots, hair bound up in a yellow handkerchief.
“Victoria Pellwell of the Miskatonic, I presume,” Valentine said.
She set down her scoop. “David Valentine. As I live and breathe.”
Valentine was tall himself, but he found himself staring dead level, or perhaps a little up, into her eyes as they shook hands. Vigorously. Valentine felt as though his hand was attached to a pump head.
“I’m pleased,” he said, hoping she’d relinquish his hand before shaking it out, “but not as pleased as you are, it seems. Can’t account for it.”
She was no beauty. She had an upturned nose and her steady, rarely blinking eyes were set at an almost uncanny distance from each other, but it was an appealing face you didn’t mind looking at. Her teeth were well aligned and gloriously white; he hadn’t seen such teeth on a woman since his brief affair with the Quisling obstetrician in Xanadu.
She freed his hand. Valentine fought the impulse to massage his knuckles. “Your papers are practically an archive all by themselves, Valentine. You’ve got a good eye for detail and you’ve met a rare level of exomorphs.”
“The Miskatonic has been helpful to me on occasion too,” Valentine said. He’d learned to grow suspicious of people eager to praise him within a few seconds of meeting. They usually wanted something.
“I’m hoping we’ll be even more so,” she said, knocking over her small barrel as she turned and put her hand up to her mouth. Valentine’s arm flashed out, caught the barrel and righted it before she could whistle, or quack, or whatever the finger in her mouth was for.
Pellwell made a popping sound with her finger against tight-stretched cheek and stamped her foot.
A train of little brown creatures, nose to stumpy naked tail, trotted out of the stable. They had powerful rear legs and smaller, delicate forelimbs with widely spaced digits. The first stuck its snout in the air and sniffed the feed.
Ratbits .
He’d seen them in the wild, if “wild” applied to
He tried to ignore Bee snuffling over his dirty clothes as he reduced his facial hair to sink litter and combed out.
Clean and feeling human again, he stopped by his desk, glanced at his in-box and the lone red flag on the Alert Map and decided everything could wait. He was curious about the new arrival at the stables.
“No mail in the diaper bag this time, Major?” asked a corporal with a tray of sandwiches and coffee on his way out.
“Afraid not. Came in from a different direction. Those sandwiches look good.”
“They’re for that spy Martinez sent. That major fella.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to know about that,” Valentine said, turning down the path to the stables.
So, the new broom at Southern Command was finally doing some whisking in Kentucky, Valentine thought. Well, he’s welcome to it. He won’t be able to complain about their use of logistical supplies. Most of the arms they were issuing to recruits were captured, the uniforms and gear were made in Evansville workshops, and the good people of Kentucky were feeding them. About all the pack trains were bringing in were bullets and medical supplies.
He took a deep breath and pretended to forget about the bad blood with General Martinez. Enemies in the Kurian Zone prowling Western Kentucky were his business, not vindictive old snapping turtles two big rivers away back at headquarters.
He took a deeper breath when he saw the woman bending over a tack-cleaning table outside the stable feed-room door. Victoria Pellwell stood at least six three. She was one of the tallest women Valentine had ever seen.
She scooped grain, corn, and nuts out of assorted livestock feed sacks, filling a flour barrel. Her civilian attire was rather striking—sun-faded red denim from neck to ankle, short, lace-up riding boots, hair bound up in a yellow handkerchief.
“Victoria Pellwell of the Miskatonic, I presume,” Valentine said.
She set down her scoop. “David Valentine. As I live and breathe.”
Valentine was tall himself, but he found himself staring dead level, or perhaps a little up, into her eyes as they shook hands. Vigorously. Valentine felt as though his hand was attached to a pump head.
“I’m pleased,” he said, hoping she’d relinquish his hand before shaking it out, “but not as pleased as you are, it seems. Can’t account for it.”
She was no beauty. She had an upturned nose and her steady, rarely blinking eyes were set at an almost uncanny distance from each other, but it was an appealing face you didn’t mind looking at. Her teeth were well aligned and gloriously white; he hadn’t seen such teeth on a woman since his brief affair with the Quisling obstetrician in Xanadu.
She freed his hand. Valentine fought the impulse to massage his knuckles. “Your papers are practically an archive all by themselves, Valentine. You’ve got a good eye for detail and you’ve met a rare level of exomorphs.”
“The Miskatonic has been helpful to me on occasion too,” Valentine said. He’d learned to grow suspicious of people eager to praise him within a few seconds of meeting. They usually wanted something.
“I’m hoping we’ll be even more so,” she said, knocking over her small barrel as she turned and put her hand up to her mouth. Valentine’s arm flashed out, caught the barrel and righted it before she could whistle, or quack, or whatever the finger in her mouth was for.
Pellwell made a popping sound with her finger against tight-stretched cheek and stamped her foot.
A train of little brown creatures, nose to stumpy naked tail, trotted out of the stable. They had powerful rear legs and smaller, delicate forelimbs with widely spaced digits. The first stuck its snout in the air and sniffed the feed.
Ratbits .
He’d seen them in the wild, if “wild” applied to
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