When the Devil Dances lota-3

by John Ringo

  * * *

  “We can’t do this, we can’t do this…” Mike heard. The circuit was open to the entire battalion and he was picking up bits and snatches of conversation. The suits were protected by the cover of the top of the hill, with only their guns elevated above the crest. But a plasma cannon or hypervelocity missile fired from the far side of the other valley could tear through the ground and take them out with just a couple of hits. For that matter, the number of Posleen meant that some of them were bound to make it through the fire, if for no other reason than that others were masking them. And once the Posleen got to hand-to-hand range, their boma blades could get through the armor. Not to mention point-blank cannon and railgun fire.

  “Steady down,” Mike said. He’d turned off the unpleasant view and had pulled up the schematics again. They were saying the same thing, but the view wasn’t so visceral. “Steady down, keep your barrels low and maintain fire dispersion.” He glanced at his readouts and chuckled. “The good news is that even we can’t miss.” Because of the automation of the systems and the fact that the ACS was designed to “spew” fire, it was an article of faith among the conventional forces that they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

  “Major,” said Captain Holder. “We’re getting heavily flanked to the north. It’s not like they’re meaning to do it, but that’s where they’re being pushed.”

  “I’m aware of that, Captain,” O’Neal said calmly. The numbers on Bravo did not look good. They had twice the separation, which meant half the fire pressure, that the rest of the battalion did. And in the face of forty million Posleen the main battalion’s fire lanes seemed woefully inadequate. For that matter, Bravo had already expended forty percent of their onboard ammo. “Duncan, get all available fire in front of Bravo Company.”

  “What about us, sir?” asked Captain Holder.

  “Well,” Mike answered, “we’re just going to have to kill all these Posleen by our own selves.”

  “We’re in the right place, though,” Mike whispered to himself. Shelly, correctly, didn’t transmit the mutterings. “We’ve got the heights, we’ve got the position, one flank, at least, is secure. We can do this. All we have to do is hang on.”

  The majority of the Posleen directly in front of Alpha and Charlie company for a half kilometer or so had been killed by the explosion of the second lander. But that dead zone was quickly being filled up by the tremendous pressure from the rear. The Posleen, as normal, were coming on fast, hard and blind, charging right into the fire. But this time there were so many of them it might just work.

  Mike had gamed out scenarios just about this bad and “won.” That is, some personnel survived and they held on long enough that the follow-on forces were able to get into position. But in this case he had no artillery support and the battalion was just too spread out. It didn’t take him long to calculate their odds of survival.

  “Slim to none,” he muttered.

  “Battalion,” he called. “All units lay down interlocking fire with your sharpshooters concentrating on the God Kings. Bravo, you need to tuck your corner in a little. All Reapers from all companies to the corner and dig in. All medics and technicians just became ammo runners; start ferrying ammo and power packs. And bring up the Reapers flechette cannons; I think this is going to end up being some close-in work.” He worked his dip and spat as the first hypervelocity missile flew overhead. Over the past five years he swore he’d used up his entire fund of motivating things to say at moments like this. “I can’t get my boots off to count on my toes, but if we win this one I do believe it will be one for the record books.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Rochester, NY, United States, Sol III

  0817 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad

  Staff Sergeant Thomas (“Little Tommy”) Sunday realized that he just loved this shit too much.

  He stepped off the platform attached to the side of the tenar and shot one of the Posleen in the head and smiled. The normal had been hacking at one of the pieces of shattered combat armor adorning the ridgeline. The extender for the suit’s grav-gun was blown away and Sunday couldn’t tell if the ACS trooper had tried fighting in direct view or if he’d been killed by one of Posleen at short range. Whatever, the position looked just about right for him to hunker down and do some killing of his own.

  Reaching onto the tenar he hefted a two-hundred-pound battle-box in one hand and then marched up the hill, firing the twenty-pound railgun one-handed at any Posleen that showed its head over the ridge.

  Thomas Sunday, Junior, had joined the United States Ground Forces on his seventeenth birthday. In the intervening years he had grown into the spitting image of his father, an All-Pro linebacker in his time, and “Little Tommy” now stood six foot eight inches tall in his stocking feet and weighed in at nearly three hundred pounds. He hadn’t been this big when he joined, though. His seventeenth birthday had been four months after the fall of his hometown of Fredericksburg, Virginia.

  In the first landing, Fredericksburg had been surrounded and cut off from any aid by an estimated four million Posleen. A scratch force of the local Guard unit, a combat engineering battalion, and the local militia had held off the advance of the Posleen force for nearly twelve hours while a special shelter was prepared for the women and children. At the end of that long night the defenders had detonated a massive fuel-air bomb as cover for the hidden noncombatants and to remove any capability for the Posleen to use the bodies of the defenders as food, “thresh” as the Posleen called it.

  The Posleen had come away from Fredericksburg with a healthy respect for the twin-turreted castle that was the symbol of the Engineers. Thomas Sunday had come away with a girlfriend and memories.

  Of the people that he had grown up with, only four were left alive. Of the defenders of Fredericksburg, people with actual guns in their hands, he was one of only five still alive, including his girlfriend.

  Not one member of his militia group. Not one friend, only a few acquaintances. His mother and sister had survived in the shelter and were now in a Sub-Urb in rural Kentucky. Everyone else was gone.

  All of them were gone, wiped from the face of the earth as if they had never existed.

  The Posleen had gone away with a respect for the Engineer, and by extension all humans. Little Tommy had come away with memories. And a burning desire to kill Posleen.

  He did so now, dropping into the prone, snuggling up to the shattered combat suit for better cover and sticking his head up over the ridge to get a look at the conditions.

  “Man, I have just got to get a transfer,” he muttered.

  The slope downward from his position was just carpeted with dead Posleen. There were still millions left to kill, sure, but the ACS must have accounted for nearly a million all by itself and at this point the remaining ranks were finding it hard to make it up the hill for all the bodies. There was no single bit of ground visible for at least a klick from the very top of the ridge down to the valley. Every single square inch was covered in bodies, most of them two, three, even four deep. And it was apparent to Sunday that very little of it had been artillery fire; Posleen that had been hit by artillery looked more chewed up for one thing.

  He set the railgun up on a tripod and set it to autofire as he opened up the battle-box. There were four cases of ammunition and a dozen battery packs in it as well as a second railgun which he set up alongside the first. Then he ganged the ammunition cases together, giving two to each of the guns, and ganged up the battery packs. When all of that was done — he pulled his personal weapon — a 7.62 Advanced Infantry Weapon that had had the original barrel switched out for a “match grade” — off his back and adjusted his shooting glasses.

  “Now to have real fun,” he chuckled.

  Crouching down he ran down the ridgeline a few meters, ensuring that the rest of his section was emplacing their weapons. Each of them was armed with a railgun and each three-man team manhandled a battle-box into place. Then as two of the members covered the third
, the “layer” installed the last railgun in “auto” mode.

  Basically, Sergeant Sunday had emplaced nearly as much firepower as half his team.

  Now he found a comfortable spot to set up and peeked past a shattered cornerstone. The Posties were getting their shit together again and they just couldn’t be allowed to do that.

  Whistling the opening bars to “Dixie,” Thomas Sunday, Junior, took a bead on a God King and gently squeezed the trigger. Just like a tit.

  “Speaking of which,” he said to himself as the first God King pitched backwards off his tenar. “One of these days I’ve just got to get down to North Carolina.”

  * * *

  The first thing that Wendy noticed was the glow-paint. It was set to the flattest, whitest intensity. The room was almost painfully neat. Part of this was an intentional minimalism; there was very little of a personal nature at all. The walls were undecorated Galplas. The standard building material of the Galactic manufacturers of the Sub-Urb could be adjusted to reflect light in practically any tone or shade so naturally some bureacrat had decreed that there were only four that could be used: institutional green, institutional white, institutional blue and institutional salmon. These were institutional white and looked as if they’d just been extruded. Since this was an outer portion of Sector F that might, in fact, be the case. The combination of the light, the impersonal nature of the room and the lack of ornamentation gave the quarters a greasy, clinical feeling.

  The second thing she noticed was the locker. The dull gray, unmarked polygon squatted in the far corner like some sort of mechanical troll. The material looked like regular Galplas, but it clearly was plasteel; the container was more proof against burglary than a steel safe. The Indowy manufacture was readily recognizable to any resident of a Sub-Urb — all the high security sections were sealed with the same stuff — and nothing but a high-watt plasma torch or a molecular grinder could cut it. There was a standard issue wall-locker in the room as well, so the plasteel safe was probably for security purposes.

  With those exceptions, the room was otherwise standard for the Sub-Urb. By the memory-plastic door was an issue emergency locker, the only thing unusual about it being that it hadn’t been vandalized. According to the seal and the inventory on the exterior, if she opened it up it should contain four emergency breath masks, a limited first aid kit and a pair of Nomex gloves. If it did, it would be the first complete set that Wendy had seen in four years. One wall sported a 27” flatscreen viewer and the carpet was basic polylon. All in all, it looked like an original issue personal living quarters. Or what they had looked like when Wendy had first been dropped in this underground hell.

  The girl sitting on the room’s single bed was wearing only a pair of running shorts and a midriff top. That was not terribly incongruous because she was very good looking. Her skin had the teenager fineness of a recent rejuvenation and her clearly unsupported breasts were high and firm. Strawberry-blond hair cascaded over her crossed arms and the white coverlet in a titian waterfall while sharp green eyes regarded her visitors with wary intelligence.

  “Annie,” said the doctor, “this is Wendy Cummings. She’s going to help you with your recovery.” The psychologist smiled cheerily. “We think it will help you at this stage in your development to get out a little more.”

  What Dr. Christine Richards did not say was that the post-op team was petrified. The latest round of cognitive tests had shown that, despite the speech impediment, Anne O. Elgars was fully recovered from her multi-year coma and experimental surgery. What they were not sure of was that it was, in fact, Anne Elgars.

  “Hi, Anne,” Wendy said, holding out her hand and giving a lopsided smile. “We’re supposed to be ‘compatible’ as friends. We’ll see. Sometimes psychologists can’t tell their ass from their elbow.”

  The person who might or might not be Anne Elgars tilted her head to the side then returned the slight smile with a broad grin. “A… Ahm A… Annie tuh fr… en.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Wendy with a blinding smile in return. “I think we’ll have lots to talk about. I understand you were in 33rd Division at Occoquan?”

  “Well,” said Dr. Richards. “I think I’ll leave you two girls alone. Annie, if you would, I’d like you to help Wendy with tasks. Now that you’re recovering it’s important that every pair of hands help.”

  The expression slid from the redhead’s face like rain. “Unnnnkay Derrrr…”

  “Don’t worry,” said Wendy with a glance at the psychologist. “We’ll be fine.”

  As the door closed on the doctor Wendy stuck her thumb behind her upper teeth and flicked it in the direction of the retreating specialist.

  “I hate psychologists,” she said making a moue of distaste. “Fucking shrinks.”

  Elgars’ mouth worked for a moment then with an expression of frustration she held both of her hands palm upward.

  “To qualify for front-line combat as a female you have to pass a psych eval,” said the blonde, tying up her ponytail in frustration as she sat next to Elgars on the bed. “And it’s a real Catch-22. They won’t admit anyone who is ‘unstable,’ but a fighting personality is considered borderline unstable for a female.”

  Elgars’ mouth worked again and she grunted a laugh. “Fum… fu. Umbitch!”

  Wendy dimpled. “Yeah. They’re all sons-of-bitches. I agree. But they can fuck themselves. So, you’ve got amnesia? And a speech impediment, obviously.”

  “Uhhh… yuhhhh,” Elgars said with another flash of impatience.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wendy said with a smile. “We’ve got plenty of time to get the story. But can I ask one question?”

  “Yuhhh.”

  “Is that a weapons locker? Because if it is I’m really pissed. They took all my shit away when I got to this damned hole. I go to the range at least once a week, but they won’t even let me try out for the security force.”

  “Yuhhh,” Elgars said with a quizzical expression. “A… Ah doooo.” She stopped and her mouth worked. “Ah… don’n… know wha…”

  “You don’t know what any of it is?” Wendy asked. “You know the words, you just can’t say them, right?”

  “Yaaah.”

  “Okay.” Wendy hopped off the bed and walked over to the featureless polygon. It was about two meters high, with six “facets” on the side and no apparent locks or doors. “How does it open?”

  Elgars slid off the bed and swayed over to the locker. Her speech may have left much to be desired, but her movements were efficient and graceful.

  Wendy regarded her carefully and smiled. “Have you been working out?”

  “Phy… skal ther’py,” Elgars answered, placing her hand on the face of the polygon. “A’ so’ o’r stu’.”

  The front of the cylinder opened to either side with a blast of gun-oil scent, and Wendy’s jaw practically hit the floor. It wasn’t a couple of personal items, it was a damn arsenal.

  The left door was hung with dress uniforms. The officer’s dress blues on top, with rank marks for a captain, were practically coated in awards and medals. At one point, besides being expert in rifle, pistol and submachine gun, Elgars had passed, in succession, the Army Advanced Marksmanship Program and Marine Corps Sniper School, the last of which was practically unheard of. She was a veteran of infantry combat, as denoted by her Combat Infantry Badge, and had apparently earned two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star along the way. But the capstone was the simple device on the right breast, a gold “600.”

  “Oh, shit,” Wendy whispered. Besides the uniforms — the right door was hung with camouflage and Fleet Strike grays for some reason — there were a half dozen weapons in the locker. Taking place of prominence was something Wendy had only seen pictures of: a Barrett M-82A1 .50 caliber sniper rifle. It clearly had seen use, but before being put away had been factory serviced and sealed in PreserFilm. There also were two different submachine guns, with loaded clips dangling on harnesses, a couple of pistols, one a silenced Gloc
k and the other something odd and bulky with a laser sight and silencer, and a “bullpup” style assault rifle. Hanging in the back was a combat harness with full loadout for a team sniper.

  “How the hell did you get this in here?” Wendy asked. “The Sub-Urbs are zero-tolerance zones!”

  “Uah… Ahmmm ’ct’ve… Aaaaactive…”

  “You’re active duty?” Wendy said with a laugh. “Sorry, but…”

  “Ahmmmm Ssssixssss…”

  “Six Hundred,” the former resident of Fredericksburg said with a sober nod. “And even the dead of the Six Hundred are still listed as active duty.”

  Elgars smiled and nodded. “Buuuu… wha’sssss,” she gestured into the locker.

  “And you don’t know what this stuff is, do you?” Wendy asked.

  “Nuuuu.”

  Wendy regarded her levelly and green eyes met her blue.

  “Okay, let’s find something out. Do you have something that shows you can have this?”

  Elgars gestured at the uniforms, but Wendy just shook her head.

  “No, for the shit-head panic children in Security we’ll need more than that. Any documentation specifically stating you’re authorized? You got a gun card?”

  Elgars reached in and extracted an envelope. Inside, on driver’s license-sized card, was a simple note:

  “Captain A. O. Elgars is a currently serving member of the United States Armed forces on detached duty and her right to carry weapons irrespective of type or caliber in any portion of the United States or its Territories for any reason she at her sole discretion shall deem reasonable and prudent shall not be infringed. Any questions regarding these orders shall be directed to the Department of War.” It was endorsed by the Continental Army commander and the commander of the Ten Thousand. The back had her picture and personal data.