When the Devil Dances lota-3

by John Ringo

  * * *

  Thomas closed his eyes at the explosion, but it was too late; his vision was gone again. Blinking through the tears, though, he could see that the Posleen were gone too. He wasn’t too sure what had just gone off under the bridge, but the north span had collapsed as well and was now lying canted to the west side so he didn’t have a shot at all. It looked like the whatever it was had blown down the west, center pylon. Just smashed it in half. There might be Posleen under there, but it didn’t really matter; the road was so blocked it would need a heavy engineering unit to clear it.

  There was no sign of that last soldier and no fire from the Posleen. So he decided it was time to limp his ass down there. He got to his feet, but his knee buckled immediately. “That’s what comes of being old and fat and wore out,” he muttered.

  He sat down on a tree and shook his head. Let somebody else take the pass. He’d just sit here till his leg felt like moving.

  Epilogue

  Cally fit the last package in the rucksack and prepared to exit the cave. Cache Four was designed to provide all the materials necessary for just such an escape and, after crying her eyes out and then sleeping, she had carefully prepared for a long journey. The route seemed to be up through the Coweeta area then cut across to Highway 64, assuming it was clear, then west to the defenses around Chattanooga.

  Now it was time to leave but she hesitated. Despite finding Papa O’Neal’s body, she was still having a hard time believing he was gone. Or that that life was over. She just wanted one more argument, one more morning. And once she left the cave it would be an acceptance that there was no more farm, no more Papa O’Neal.

  Finally, she set the pack down and pulled out a book. There was enough food and water for her to sit here for a year and the cave was both secluded and secure.

  She’d think about leaving tomorrow.

  * * *

  The Himmit watching her from the top of the cave gave an internal shrug of puzzlement. She had been well on the way to leaving and now had paused. This made no sense to the Himmit. But that was why humans were so endlessly fascinating; they did things for no apparent reason.

  He settled in for a long wait. But Himmits were good at that. And this was going to make a fine story someday.

  * * *

  Mosovich paused as Mueller raised a closed fist and settled on his heels. Then the master sergeant cocked his head quizzically and Jake could hear the sound as well. There was a large stream just ahead, part of the Coweeta Hydrological lab area, and the rush of the waters overwhelmed most other noises. But, faintly, he could hear what sounded like female laughter.

  Wendy sat up sputtering and lowered the MP5 she had managed to keep out of the stream.

  “Very funny, Shari,” she snapped, shivering. “This water is frigging freezing.”

  “I can tell,” the older woman said with another laugh. “Anybody would be able to tell.”

  Wendy looked down and had to chuckle. Her clothes had taken a beating in the exit from the Urb and from the vegetation of the mountains. So between the tearing and the water and the thinness of her shirt it was… more than evident that the water was cold.

  “I look like a friggin’ Packed and Stacked girl,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You sure do,” Mueller said, sliding down out of the underbrush. “I wish I had a camera!”

  “Jesus!” Shari said, spinning in place. “Don’t do that to me!”

  Mueller raised his hands at the three leveled weapons. “Hey, friends.”

  “Lord, Mueller, I never thought I’d say this,” Wendy said, standing up and lowering the barrel of the submachine gun. “But you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Likewise, I think,” the master sergeant replied. He glanced over at Shari and shook his head. “Who’s your… Shari?”

  “It’s a long story,” Elgars said, raising her hand. “We’re headed to the O’Neal caches. You?”

  “We’re supposed to scout forward to the Gap,” Mosovich said, coming out upstream. “But we’re moving fairly fast and light.”

  “Were,” Elgars said. “We’re moving fairly fast, but we could use some help. And you’re hired.”

  “Captain,” the sergeant major said severely. “We’ve been given our mission by the Continental Army commander.”

  “Okay,” she said, gesturing at his AID. “Call him up. Tell him that you’ve been shanghaied by a bunch of guurrls with their kids and you don’t like it.”

  “I’m supposed to be scouting,” Mosovich said. “I can’t do that dragging a bunch of refugees.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Wendy said. “Just watch you.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Patrick Delf swept his AIW from side to side, using the night scope on it to look for targets. The area around the Blue Ridge overpass was a mass of heat signatures, but none of them were moving. Most of them were unrecognizable. He stepped forward carefully, his feet shuffling for good footing on the rubble-strewn road, and searching for threats or targets. But there wasn’t anything. Both spans, contrary to their intelligence, were down and down hard; clearing the road was going to be a bitch.

  He moved closer, waving for the rest of his squad to spread to either side. The recon team opened out, each of them looking for Posleen and finding nothing.

  Under the shadows of the bridge they found a trench filled with dead Posleen. Most of them were too fire-blackened to determine what had killed them, but several had had their lights punched out by a large caliber gun, probably a sniper.

  The cental pylon was gone at the base. It looked like it had taken heavy fire, probably plasma or HVM, from the Posleen trench. Which didn’t make any sense unless one of them had gone completely ape-shit. There was a cooling smear at the base, but he wasn’t sure what that meant until he went to one knee, wiped at it and and sniffed his fingers. The odor of human blood, as opposed to Posleen, was distinct.

  “Sir, this is Sergeant Delf,” the team leader called, touching his communicator. “The pass is clear. Some poor bastard got all the way up here and then got waxed by an HVM. But the HVM collapsed the bridge and blew plasma back on the Posleen; they’re gone.”

  “Any other survivors?” the brigade commander asked.

  “Not so far, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It doesn’t look good. We’re not on the other side of the bridge yet, but we can see some tracks; they got wasted, sir. I see three Abrams and two Brads from here and they’re all toast. The pass is blocked by the fallen bridges, it’s down all the way across. And the tracks are in the way. But no Posleen. The survivors kicked the shit out of them.”

  “Roger,” the colonel said softly. “Is the area clear for aircraft?”

  “I can’t guarantee that, sir. I don’t know what’s down the valley.”

  “According to Eastern Command just a very pissed off SheVa. I’m sending a dustoff up for anyone you find, complete your sweep and get back to me. Be careful, though, it’s a long way to Rabun Gap.”

  * * *

  Cholosta’an shook his head as his pupils started to widen back out. Despite the secondary lids and the tightening pupils he was sure there was some eye damage. Better than what would have happened if the oolt’ondai had chosen to move forward.

  “I will eat their get,” Orostan growled angrily. But even to the younger Kessentai it had a defeated sound to it.

  “We’re out of elite oolt,” Cholosta’an pointed out. “And trained pilots. We have no remaining tenaral. Besonora’s oolt’ondar has been wiped out and the humans will soon retake Balsam Gap. The damned engineers have destroyed the other roads out of this valley. And Torason says that he is held from advancing up the Tennessee Valley. We must retreat while we have any oolt left at all.”

  “No, we must drive forward,” Orostan snarled. “We will take that pass. And the lands beyond. We have the forces still. Take your oolt forward, gather all the scattered oolt’os that you find. Drive forward for the pass! I will gather all that are left in this area and follow.”
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  “Your wish, Oolt’ondai,” the Kessentai said. “I go.”

  He waved for his oolt’os to attend him and moved forward. As soon as he had crossed the rickety bridge and into shattered Dillsboro he turned right, paralleling the Tuckasegee.

  “Let Orostan die in his quest to ‘save the race,’ ” the Kessentai whispered. If there was one thing this world had taught him it was that to survive was enough. Let the brave die “for the good of the race.” Cholosta’an would just survive.

  * * *

  Tulo’stenaloor shook his head at the report from Dillsboro. He considered, briefly, telling Orostan to withhold his attack. It would take him hours to gather his forces again, what forces he had left. Finally he decided against it. First of all, the old idiot would probably ignore him and attack anyway. Second, slowing the advance of the forces headed for the Gap was a worthwhile goal. When the metal threshkreen finally arrived, he was going to lose the pass to the humans, temporarily. But just give him some time and he could get it back. They would be low on ammunition and power and he could push them out with time.

  “All I ask is time.”

  * * *

  Mike walked out the hole where the back wall of his office used to be and didn’t look back; he was pretty sure he’d never see it again.

  The battalion was drawn up in “chalks” before their shuttles. All twenty-two shuttles had landed on the parade field and had been loaded with weapons and equipment, including the critical power packs and antimatter Lances. All that was left to do was load the troops and maybe give a little speech.

  The problem with that was that even the “newbies” knew they were going on a suicide mission. It was an important suicide mission, one that couldn’t be more vital. But if any of them survived it would be fairly remarkable.

  There was also the fact that even the newbies had been on darned near continuous combat operations for between two and five years. These were troops that had walked into the fire, eyes open, over and over and over again. And most of them had heard his speeches before.

  But it was a little tradition.

  Mike removed his helmet, but set the AID to amplify his voice and faced the assembled battalion.

  “On October 25, 1415, near Calais, France, a small band of Englishmen under the English king Henry the Fifth faced the entire French army. This battle was called ‘Agincourt’ and it occurred upon St. Crispin’s Day.

  “Although outnumbered by five to one odds, they inflicted terrific casualties upon the better armed and armored French, thereby winning the day.

  “An offhand remark of King Henry was later modified by William Shakespeare into the famous ‘St. Crispin’s Day Speech.’

  “This day is called the feast of Crispian:

  He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

  Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

  And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

  He that shall live this day, and see old age,

  Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

  And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian’:

  Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

  And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

  Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

  But he’ll remember with advantages

  What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

  Familiar in his mouth as household words

  Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

  Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

  Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

  This story shall the good man teach his son;

  And Crispin shall ne’er go by,

  From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be remember’d;

  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

  For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

  Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

  This day shall gentle his condition:

  And gentlemen in England now a-bed

  Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

  And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

  That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

  “Throughout the history of man, small forces facing overwhelming odds have been remembered in storied song. The small Greek force at Marathon that defeated a Persian force that outnumbered it a hundred to one. The Rhodesian SAS team that accidentally ran onto a regimental review of guerrillas and wiped them out. The Heroes of Thermopylae. The Alamo. The Seventh Cavalry.”

  He paused and looked around at the silent, blank-faced suits. He knew from experience that better than half of them were composing an e-mail or listening to music or looking for some new and better porn. But what the hell.

  “Given our situation, I think the last three are most significant,” he continued, pulling out a dip and putting it in. Spitting to clear his mouth, he looked at the sky. “Today we fly to take and hold a pass. We will do so until we are out of bodies or power or ammo. I’m not sure which we’ll run out of first. All things considered, probably bodies.

  “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. In years to come, men at home now in their beds will think of this day and do you know what they will say? ‘Jesus, I’m glad I wasn’t with those poor doomed ACS assholes or right now I’d be dead.’

  “But what the hell; that’s why they pay us the big bucks. Board ships.”

  Author’s Afterword

  There was supposed to be, there originally was, a long, mildly humorous acknowledgments section here. Of course, I was working on this novel on 9/11. And then, as “they” say, the world changed.

  Well, “they” are wrong. “The world” did not change on 9/11, our country did. In the author’s afterword to Gust Front I commented that “we are living in a Golden Age, with all its strengths and ills.” That Golden Age met a distinct reality check on 9/11. The event, more than anything, woke many of us up.

  It didn’t wake me up, I was already awake. I’d been awake since I was eleven or twelve and an ammunition ship blew up in Beirut harbor. Of course, I was about ten blocks away at the time, so it was… rather noticeable. “Loud” doesn’t cover it. The world has always been a very hostile place, more so for Americans in the latter half of the twentieth century than for any other group (with the possible exception of Jews). People in the developing nations come in two distinct brands: they love America or they hate it. I never, in all my travels, met one person who was just flat ambivalent. Being awake was one of the reasons I gave my body to Uncle Sammy. I knew there were barbarians at the gates, even if nobody else heard the thumping.

  What has always seemed distant to many Americans has always been real and close to me. I have had to wonder how many of my schoolmates were in the crowd that stormed the embassy in Teheran. I’ve had to wonder if my best friend from fifth grade died in the Bosnian conflict. And I’ve always wondered what “it” was going to be. What “it” was that was going to sufficiently shock my fellow countrymen out of their complacency. Was “it” going to be a nuke in Washington? Or smallpox? Or anthrax?

  As things turned out, “it” was destroying the Twin Towers.

  In WWII, for the British, “it” was the invasion of Poland, and even more so the invasion of France. For the U.S. “it” was Pearl Harbor. Democracies require an “it,” a defining moment when the call to arms is so clear that the most complacent hear the trumpets.

  Where we are going in the future is uncertain. We may yet descend into cataclysmic warfare to dwarf my books. Or we may “change the paradigm” and hammer through on the backs of our elite. I don’t know what we shall find in the tunnel ahead. I do know this, though. That is all that it is. A dark tunnel. There is a light at the end; it is not another train, it is the future. We will create that future as Americans always have: a better, brighter future.

  All we need do, as a nation, is drive through to the end.

&
nbsp; They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old,

  Age shall not weary them… nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,

  We will remember them!

  — Lawrence Binyon

  John Ringo

  Commerce, GA

  October 5, 2001

  Glossary

  abat — Small, generally inoffensive Posleen pest.

  Attenrenalslar — Five percenter Kessentai in Rochester.

  Blastplas — Material that blastdoors are made from.

  Castleman Avenue — One side (the east) of the “box” in Rochester.

  Chengdu — City near western limit of Posleen advance in China.

  Cholosta’an — Junior Kessentai.

  chorho — Birthplace.

  cosslain — Superior normal.

  defib — Defibrillator.

  devourers — Digging machines.

  Drasanar — “Patrolmaster,” operations officer in charge of patrols.

  edas — Set-up debt. Also any general debt.

  eson’sora — Junior officer/protégé.

  Essthree — S-3, Operations.

  Esstu — S-2, Intelligence.

  estanaar — Greater Warleader/Khan.

  Forty-Three — Uncompleted SheVa.

  Forty-Two — SheVa in Rochester.

  Galplas — Standard Galactic structural material.

  grat — Malicious Posleen pest. Only eats abat. Similar in appearance to a large wasp. Very territorial and aggressive.

  Halligan — Type of entry tool.

  Irmansul — Darhel planet currently under attack by the Posleen.

  Kenstain — God Kings who act as castellaine.

  Kerlan — Posleen name for Barwhon.