When the Devil Dances lota-3

by John Ringo

  “Yep,” Duncan agreed as he set his helmet carefully on the desk in front of him. The plasteel was still heavy and hard enough to mar the stick drawing of a little girl with “Ashley” written below it. “At least nobody is shooting at us.”

  “We’ll get back to that pretty soon,” Mike said. He worked the ball of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and spit into his helmet. The nannites of the semibiotic underlayer gathered up the disgusting glop which, from its perspective, was simply moisture, nutrients and complex carbon molecules, and carried them off to be reprocessed. “There’s groups of Posleen holed up all along the bottom of the Plain. We’re going to help with the mop-up for the next week or so as reaction forces. After that, Horner has ordered us to move to our barracks and take some time off. Given that we had to reconsolidate without Alpha company, I think some time in barracks is called for.”

  “We’ve got barracks?” Stewart asked with a chuckle. “I mean, like, real barracks that are ours and everything? Or are we going to a ‘rest and recreation’ barracks?” he asked with a grimace. The facilities were run by Ground Forces and varied wildly.

  “They’re ours,” O’Neal said with a grin. “They’ve been on my books the whole damned time. They’re in the mountains in Pennsylvania. A place called Newry, just south of Altoona. We’ve even got a rear detachment.”

  “We do?” Duncan asked, bemusedly. “I would have thought the S-3 would know about that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not all that big,” Mike said. “And they’re all seconded from Ground Forces. But there’s a supply officer and a personnel section.”

  “And barracks?” Captain Slight said with a light chuckle. “With beds and stuff?”

  “The same,” O’Neal said with another grin. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep in one; the last time I tried I was up all night tossing and turning.”

  “I think the troops will adjust,” Gunny Pappas said, shaking his head now that he’d doffed his helmet. “They seriously need some down time. And there’s gear that needs work, even the GalTech gear.”

  “We’ll do all of that,” Mike said. “My basic plan is this. We should arrive, transportation being available, on Monday or Tuesday. We’ll spend a day cleaning up the barracks and our gear and morguing the suits. Then a day or two on short days around the barracks, getting used to wearing silks again and working on our dress stuff. Friday we’ll have a real honest to God ‘payday activities’ with an inspection of the barracks and dress uniform inspection followed by a battalion formation and dismissal by noon. Everybody to be back in formation no earlier than noon the next Tuesday.”

  “You know, I don’t know how that will go over,” Captain Holder said. “Frankly, I think some of the troops will view it as… well…”

  “Chickenshit, sir?” Gunny Pappas said. “With all due respect, Captain, I disagree…”

  “So do I,” Stewart interjected. “And I disagree as a former troop. All of these troops are volunteers. You don’t get to the point that we’re at without realizing that there’s a reason for all the happy horseshit in garrison. Sure, you ignore most of it in combat, but the best, the most elite troops, have always been the snazziest dressers.”

  “Waffen SS,” Duncan noted. “Now there were some guys who knew how to wear a uniform.”

  “The 82nd,” Captain Slight noted. “They were chosen for the role of Honor Guard in post-WWII Europe mainly on the basis of how well they dressed out. And nobody can fault their combat record.”

  “Rhodesian SAS and the Selous Scouts,” O’Neal said in agreement. “Two of the baddest groups ever to come out of the Cold War and they were like peacocks in garrison; Dad still has his uniform and it looks like something from a Hungarian opera.”

  “Okay, okay,” Captain Holder said, holding up his hands. “But do the troops know that?”

  “We’ll give ’em evenings off,” Mike said. “Short passes; they’ll need to be back to barracks by a curfew. There’s a reason for it. Gunny?”

  “You don’t just rip soldiers right out of combat and drop them on a town, sir,” Gunny Pappas said with a nod. “You have to… acclimatize them first.”

  “We’ll give them a week of ‘chickenshit’ to acclimatize, and a week for the town to get used to the idea and more or less prepared, and then we’ll let them go for a weekend. I don’t see us having more than a couple of weeks, maybe a month, in garrison. We’ll let them unwind for a bit then train back up and then…”

  “Back to killing Posleen,” Duncan said with a growl.

  “Back to making Posleen sausage,” Mike agreed. “What we do best.”

  “We getting any replacements, sir?” Pappas asked. “We’re… getting a little low on bodies in case nobody had noticed.”

  “There are twelve suits in the pipeline,” O’Neal said. “They’re all supposed to be waiting for us when we get to Newry.”

  “And bodies?” Captain Slight asked. “Even with the troops we picked up from Alpha, we’re under manning.”

  “And bodies,” Mike agreed. “Given that we have some mopping up to do, the bodies should be there in time to get the suits fitted and even dialed in. I understand we’re even getting a couple from the Ten Thousand.”

  * * *

  “Ten shut!” Sunday called as Colonel Cutprice entered the room.

  The conference room was in the offices of a factory, long since abandoned, just west of the Genesee River. The blasts from SheVa rounds, which had levelled practically every prominence east of the Genesee, had blown out the windows of the room and Cutprice strode across crackling glass as he entered. But it was better than being outside; the rains had set in again and it looked to be turning to snow soon.

  “At ease, rest even,” Cutprice said, striding over to the group of four troopers. He was trailed by Mansfield, carrying a set of boxes, and the sergeant major, similarly weighed down.

  “Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” he continued, suiting action to words as he pulled out a pack of Dunhills. They were getting hard to find so he saved them for special occasions.

  “You might be wondering why I called you here and all that…” He smiled and nodded at the boxes. “All of you transferred in from other units, and when you got here we took a rank away from you to make sure that you could cut the mustard, that you weren’t just garrison rangers with great counseling statements and no damned heart for war.” He looked at Sunday and shook his head.

  “As it turned out, you all were what the Ten Thousand wanted; warriors to the core, psychotic motherfucking Posleen killers, willing to walk into the fire over and over and never flinch.” He shook his head again, this time in sorrow. “And now we’re losing you to those ACS bastards.

  “Well, those ACS bastards do the same thing,” he noted, taking the first box. “They take a stripe away when you get there, just to make sure you’re what they need in a warm body. Then they stuff you in a can until you look like a worm that crawled out from under a rock.” He glanced at the note attached to the box and nodded.

  “Sunday, get your ass over here,” he growled. “I don’t know if your old unit did this before you came here, but they should have. Most of you is getting bumped a rank before you leave, that way when you get to the damned clankers you’ll end up at the rank you have, by God, earned.

  “The exception,” he continued, looking up at Sunday, “is you, Tank. I’d been thinking about doing this for a while and I don’t know what took me so long.” He glanced at Mansfield then looked away. “Some paperwork problem. Anyway, I’m going to screw you for all time. You ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sunday said in confusion. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Okay, if you’re that trusting,” Cutprice said with an evil grin, “you deserve this. Attention to orders!

  “Staff Sergeant Thomas Sunday, Junior, is released from Service of the United States Ground Forces September 17, 2009, for the Purposes of accepting a commission as a Regular Officer of the United States Ground
Forces and concurrent reentry to the United States Ground Forces as First Lieutenant. First Lieutenant Thomas Sunday, Junior, is ordered to active duty this September 17, 2009, with date of rank September 17, 2009.” Cutprice stopped reading, reached in his bellows pocket, pulled out a battered pair of first lieutenant’s bars and replaced Sunday’s staff sergeant collar stripes. “You don’t owe me anything for these, by the way. I had them rattling around in the back of my desk.”

  * * *

  “Very well, Orostan,” Tulo’stenaloor said. “I’ll send Shartarsker in to make sure they are not coming closer to the base.” He looked at the map and considered the report the oolt’ondai had sent in. “Good luck.”

  Goloswin looked up from the sensor readout. “It does not go well?”

  “The team apparently has escaped,” Tulo’stenaloor said. “After ravaging Orostan’s oolt’ondar.”

  “Well, they are not in the sensor region,” Goloswin said, gesturing at the map. “Or at least not marking themselves as such. I’m not sure if they can at this point. There is a way to communicate with these boxes without other devices, but this assumes the humans are as clever as I am.”

  “So even if they are in the sensor net, we might not know it?” Tulo’stenaloor asked.

  “Yes,” Goloswin answered, ruffling his crest. “There is a way to modify their software to make them detect humans. The sensors ‘see’ the humans, but they also see the thresh of the woods and all the greater thresh of this planet. The ‘deer’ and ‘dogs’ and such-like that have survived. The humans have designed the systems, quite efficiently I might add, to sort through the information they collect in several different ways. And it sorts out anything but Posleen and humans that are ‘in the net’ and telling it they are there and want to be tracked. Thus I would have to tell all the boxes to change their filters to find humans. And even then it would assume the humans are not cloaking themselves in any of several ways. I could do it — I am, after all, clever. But the humans might, probably would, notice. They, too, have clever technicians.”

  “And then they would know that we… How did you put it?” Tulo’stenaloor asked.

  “They would know that they have been ‘hacked,’ ” Goloswin said. “That we ‘own’ their system.”

  “We don’t want to do that,” Tulo’stenaloor mused. “Yet.”

  “What do you want to do in the meantime?” Goloswin asked. “Or can I go back to tinkering?”

  “Just one last question,” the War Leader said. “Can you set the system to ‘filter’ out the Po’oslena’ar?”

  * * *

  Wendy shook her head as she watched Elgars finish up her workout. The sniper always closed with an exercise that was peculiar to her. She had suspended a weight, in this case fifty pounds of standard metal barbell weights, from a rope. The rope, in turn, was wrapped around a dowel; actually a chopped down mop handle.

  Elgars would then “winch” up the weights by twisting the rope in her hands. Up and slowly back down, fifty times. Wendy was lucky if she could do it five times.

  “I gave up on that one,” Wendy admitted. They generally worked out once a day for about an hour switching between strength and cardiovascular sessions. Lately, though, they had been concentrating more on weight training; Wendy was trying out for a “professional” emergency services position and Elgars was backstopping her training. Today Wendy had stuck to warm-ups; when they were done she was going to go to the tryouts and she didn’t even want to think about going through that SOB after a full workout.

  “You ought to start at a lower weight and rep,” the captain said. “It’s good for the wrists.”

  “I can see that,” Wendy admitted, looking at the captain’s; the woman’s forearms were starting to look like a female Popeye’s.

  “Makes it easier to climb ladders among other things, most of the stuff in your PPE.”

  “Yeah, well, time to go to that now,” Wendy said nervously.

  “One of these days I will figure out the purpose of a fire department in this place,” Elgars said, wiping off her face with a towel and wrapping the towel around her neck. “Every fire that has broken out was extinguished before the crew arrived; that is what sprinklers and Halon are for. I think they’re just a very overtrained clean-up crew.”

  “Well, at least it feels like you’re doing something,” Wendy said sharply.

  “And caring for screaming children is not doing something?” Annie asked with a thin smile.

  “Do you want to do it the rest of your life?” Wendy asked.

  “No,” the captain said, leading the way out of the gym. “But, then again, you don’t get the desire to disembowel the little bastards.”

  “You get along with Billy,” Wendy said with her own tight smile.

  “That is because he doesn’t say anything.”

  “Well, there is that,” Wendy snapped. “You weren’t in Fredericksburg; you can’t know what it was like.”

  “No, I can’t,” Elgars said. “Thank you very much for pointing that out. I was not in Fredericksburg and I wouldn’t remember anyway.”

  Wendy stopped and looked at the officer for a moment. “When did we start fighting?”

  Elgars stopped in turn and cocked her head. “I think when I complained about the fire department.”

  “Okay,” Wendy said. “It’s something to do that helps. Yes, I’m tired of the daycare center. I was tired of it when most of this damned place was open cavern and it was just a couple of hundred shaken up Virginians. I’m sick and tired of it now. I’ve watched those kids grow up without sunlight or anyplace to play but a few rooms and I just can’t do it any more.

  “I’m tired of wiping noses. I’m tired of not making a contribution. I’m tired of being treated like some sort of brood mare, especially since the only guy I’m willing to be one with is NEVER HERE!”

  “Okay,” Annie said, raising a hand. “Gotcha.”

  “As to Billy,” Wendy continued, leading the way down the corridor, “Shari was the last person out of Central Square. Billy… looked back.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Elgars said with a sigh. “What and where is Central Square?”

  “It was the big shopping center outside of Fredericksburg,” Wendy explained patiently. “The Posleen dropped right on it. Shari just… walked away. Carrying Susie and leading Kelly and Billy. Billy… looked back. He’s never been right since.”

  “Okay,” Elgars said patiently. “I still don’t understand. Looked back? At the shopping center? Whatever that is.”

  “The Posleen were… eating the people there.”

  “Ah.” Elgars thought about that for a second. “That would be bad.”

  “And they apparently were… spreading out towards Shari. She says she doesn’t really know because she wouldn’t look back. But Billy did.”

  “Okay,” the captain said with a frown. “I guess that would be bad.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Wendy asked. She’d noticed that sometimes the sniper was sometimes almost inhumanly dense about stuff.

  “No,” Elgars replied.

  “It was like one of those nightmares,” Wendy said with a shudder. “Where something’s chasing you and you can’t get away no matter how fast or where you run. The docs think he’s sort of… locked up in that. Like he can’t think about anything else; he’s just replaying the nightmare.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Elgars opined. “I don’t have that nightmare.”

  “You don’t?” Wendy asked. “Never?”

  “I did once,” Elgars admitted. “But I turned around and killed the thing that was following me.” She shuddered. “It was one of the octopuses again.”

  “Octopuses?” Wendy stopped and turned to the captain. “What octopuses?”

  “You don’t dream about giant purple octopuses?” Elgars asked in surprise. “I do. Usually I’m watching from the outside and they’re pulling out my brain. It’s like it’s all squiggling worms and they lay it out
on a table and hit the worms with mallets to get them to quit squiggling. Every time they hit one of the worms, I can feel it in my head. You never have that dream?”

  Wendy had gone from astonishment to wide-eyed shock and now turned back towards their destination shaking her head. “Huh, uh. And, friend that you are, I have to admit that that falls into the category of TMI.”

  “TMI?” Elgars asked.

  “ ‘Too Much Information.’ ”

  “I wouldn’t have run, for that matter.”

  “Even with three kids that were your responsibility?” Wendy asked.

  “Ah…” Elgars had to stop to think about that. “I probably would have fought anyway. I can’t imagine running from the Posleen. It seems like a losing proposition.”

  “Shari’s alive,” Wendy pointed out. “So are her children. All the other people, adults and children, who were at Central Square are dead. Unless you’ve got the force to hold ground, staying is a losing proposition.”

  Elgars shrugged as a double set of high blasplas doors, similar to an airlock, retreated into the walls. The room beyond was large: high-ceilinged, at least sixty meters across and even taller than it was wide. The walls were covered in white tiles and there were large fans on the distant ceiling.

  In the center of the room was a large structure made out of vitrified stone. It looked something like a small, separate building, about six stories high, but it was covered in black soot and had dozens of different pipe-ends sticking out of it. The numerous windows were all unglazed, with edges cracked as if from hammering or, perhaps, really intense heat. A series of catwalks led off of it to lines arrayed up to the ceiling.

  Arrayed along the base of the walls were hundreds of small openings. As Elgars and Wendy entered, the overhead fans kicked on with a distant howl and a faint draft came out of the nearest opening. The fans were drawing the air in the room fast enough to slightly reduce the pressure; if it was not for the hundreds of air-vents along the floor wherever the air did enter would be a hurricane.