Valentine's Rising Read Online Free

like every day I hear that,” the older man screeched. “The friggin’ sign is out there, plain as paint, everything but a spotlight on it. But still I hear ‘Is this Station 46?’ from some shitheel six times a week and twice on Sundays. Never fails.”
    â€œSo this is Station 46?” Valentine asked.
    The aged lieutenant turned even redder. “Yes, dammit! This is Station 46.”
    â€œI’m to speak to the commanding officer.”
    â€œHe ain’t here, boy. I mean, that’s me, seeing as he’s out. Whatever the question is, the answer is ‘no.’ Now get going before I jail you for breaking curfew, you dunk.”
    Valentine was happy to swallow the abuse, as long as the lieutenant stayed angry.
    â€œI was told by one of your officers to speak to the commanding officer, Station 46. That’s what I’m here to do, sir.”
    The lieutenant leaned forward in his rocking chair. “What about?”
    â€œMy boy’s watchin’ two pen of hawgs bit north of here, ’round Blocky Swamp. There’s a lot less hawgs in those pens thanks to some sergeant with a uniform like yours. He didn’t pass any scrips or warrants, just took ’em. He told me if I had a problem with it to speak to the officer commanding, Station 46, Bern Woods. Walked all day, practically, as I do have a problem with someone just takin’ my stock.”
    â€œWhat the crap, dunk? Haven’t you heard yet? There’s been some changes, boy. Southern Command’s not riding ’round handing out scrip no more. That’s all over and out.”
    Valentine widened his stance.
    â€œI don’t fight these wars, or know about it from nothing, and I keep my boys outta it too. I’m short salt and flour and sugar; thought I’d pick some up and catch up on the news after Christmas. But being short hawgs now too, I thought a trip to town was in order. I want to write on some papers and make a complaint.”
    â€œA complaint? A complaint?”
    â€œThat’s correct, sir.”
    The old man wavered in perplexity, then looked at Valentine sidelong, under lowered lids, like a bull trying to make up its mind whether to charge or run.
    â€œI’ll take your statement,” he said. “I don’t expect you’ll get the answer you’re looking for, but I warned ya fair.”
    â€œThanks. Would’ve saved us both some time if you’d done so in the first place,” Valentine said.
    The older man snorted and led him inside the command post. He held the door open for Valentine with a grin, and Valentine suddenly liked the aged lieutenant a little better, and hoped it wouldn’t come to killing.
    Little remnants of both the banking heritage and retail life of the building remained in the form of a vault and stock tables. Valentine looked inside the vault, where arms and boxes of ammunition stood in disarray from the hurried muster he had seen ride out of town. A few footlockers and gun cases with Southern Command notations on them huddled in a corner as though frightened of the new pegs and racks. Opposite the vault a row of rooms held prisoners, confined behind folding metal gates like those used to protect urban merchants’ streetside windows from burglars. Valentine counted the men, his heart shrinking three sizes when he recognized their faces. Eleven remaining marines from the Thunderbolt sat in the bare, unlit cells—pictures of grubby despair. Post and the two Jamaicans occupied another cell. Two more, in Texan clothes, shared another; Jefferson passed him a hint of a shrug—he had dried blood from a cut lip in his beard. The other was a drover named Wilson. Guilt pulled at him with an iron hook. The marines took in Valentine with darting eyes but said nothing. The surviving teamster ignored him.
    Valentine heard a hoot, and turned his head to see a pair of Grogs in loincloths. Simpler, shorter versions of the