When the Devil Dances Page 11

  "General," the colonel protested, thinking about all of the really bad aspects of that order, "you do realize that . . . well . . ."

  He paused for a second to collect his thoughts. "Well, for one thing, the rounds aren't exactly howitzer rounds, General. If they do hit something they're going to make an atomic fireball about a quarter the size of the Hiroshima bomb; it's going to be noticeable on seismometers from here to Tibet. Second, they go for a looong ways; there's a couple of fortress cities out there. New York comes to mind. Last but not least, we're not a tank for all we look like one. We don't have any armor over our tracks or on the gun mantlet. In other words, we're vulnerable to Posleen fire. And if we sustain a critical ammunition hit you're going to have an explosion that makes the Shanghai Strike look like a firecracker and you'll lose everyone in the pocket. And most of the forces on this side of the river."

  He waited for a moment as Horner appeared to be waiting for him to go on.

  "Is that it?" Horner asked.

  "Well, yes, sir."

  "Okay. You forgot that without infantry support the Posleen would be able to close in on either side and attack you from underneath. Which, all things considered, really is your most vulnerable direction. You don't have anti-Posleen secondary weapons."

  "Yes, sir," the colonel said. "You have a point there."

  "Also that unless the Ten Thousand pulls back, you'll almost surely crush them in large numbers. And that moving you through the assaulting corps is not going to be what you would call easy."

  "No, sir, it won't," the colonel admitted.

  "You also missed the more significant aspect of your possible demise," the general continued inexorably. "If you sustain a critical ammunition hit, the resulting ground level explosion will be on the order of seventy kilotons. While this will, undoubtedly, kill Posleen for miles around, it will also create a very large crater. This crater, based upon the subsurface structure, will probably dam both the Genesee River and the Erie Canal. While the large area of marsh that will result will somewhat impede the Posleen, they will then have crossing points over both water structures. Just at the time when the local defense forces will probably be in full-scale rout to Buffalo."

  The colonel suddenly recalled the tiny and almost forgotten datum that Horner's original education was engineering. "Ah. That's . . . not a point I had considered, sir."

  "Colonel, listen very carefully," Horner said with a broad smile, speaking as if to a child. "Move your vehicle over to the Genesee Valley. Cross the river. Engage the Posleen in direct fire mode in support of the ACS on the ridge. Fire your weapons low. As often as possible, engage concentrations on hilltops that you can impact; if there are occasional detonations of your antimatter munitions this is an unfortunate side effect for which neither of us can be held responsible. As you move up, the Ten Thousand will shift left to cover that flank. The ACS will provide you with close infantry support. Use the slope of the ground for hull down fire; it is, I am told, almost perfect for it. Try not to hit New York City. Is this understood?"

  "Yes, sir," the colonel said quietly. He was beginning to get the impression that this was not entirely the general's idea. And that the general was not particularly happy with it.

  "And Colonel Wagoner."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Don't get hit. Especially in your magazines."

  "I'll try, sir. Sir? One question?"

  "Yes?" Horner snapped.

  "The Ten Thousand are getting out of my way. What about the ACS? What if we roll over one of them?"

  Horner paused and for just a moment frowned slightly, a sign of amusement. "Colonel, have you ever watched the Coyote and Road Runner?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, if you run over an ACS, he'll just have to dig himself out. There's one over there painted like a green demon; you have my personal permission to show him why you call infantry 'crunchies.' "

  CHAPTER 8

  Near Seed Lake, GA, United States, Sol III

  1147 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad

  "Good cosslain," Cholosta'an said, rubbing the superior normal on the back. The half oolt had returned from its first "patrol" on its own and from all appearances had made all the turns perfectly.

  Many of the cosslain, the higher intelligence normals that were almost high moron level, could not have remembered all the turns in the complex patrol pattern they had been assigned. But the one good thing about his oolt was the cosslain, and this one sometimes seemed almost intelligent enough to handle God King duties. He couldn't talk, but his hand gestures were occasionally almost eloquent.

  "Did you see anything of note?" Cholosta'an asked, signaling the half oolt to begin their daily feeding.

  The cosslain gestured in the negative as he pulled a ration pack out of his harness. The food resembled a small mineral block and was just about as hard, but it gave the oolt'os something to do with their time.

  "You'll go back out in a few hours," Cholosta'an continued, pulling out a slightly more palatable ration pack. It wasn't much better than oolt'os food, though, and he longed for a victory to give him the funds to afford better. "If you see any sign of the humans you are to fire off a magazine to bring the nearest Kessentai, you know that?"

  The cosslain gestured in the affirmative, his triangular teeth grinding through the rations sounding like a rockcrusher.

  "Good," Cholosta'an said. All the oolt'os seemed healthy and reasonably well fed so there wasn't much else to do.

  "You do a good job," said Orostan.

  Cholosta'an stifled his start and turned around slowly. The oolt'ondai had come up so softly that the younger Kessentai never even heard him. "Pardon me, Oolt'ondai?"

  "You care well for your oolt'os. Many Kessentai, especially young ones, don't pay any attention to their care. It is good to see."

  "They can't very well care for themselves," Cholosta'an said, wondering why the oolt'ondai was paying any attention to him.

  "Let me ask you something," the oolt'ondai said, gesturing for the younger Kessentai to precede him. The newly dug cavern rang to the sound of devourers and the cries of the oolt'os manning them. It was only one of dozens that the hard-driving Tulo'stenaloor had ordered. It was his intention, apparently, to put the entire host underground, out of sight of the observers in the sky and out of danger from the human artillery. With more and more young and hungry Kessentai arriving every day, it was a matter of continuous construction.

  The oolt'ondai fluffed his crest as he made his way through the thousands of waiting oolt. The bodies of the oolt'os, and the occasional Kessentai, stretched for acres in every direction. The smell was an interesting admixture of home and fear. The smell was of pack, but the continuous battle for survival and status in the pens never quite left Posleen subconscious. The oolt'os would wait stoically until called upon, but if something wasn't done with all the Kessentai, such as having them manage patrols, they would begin to bicker, gamble and fight. A firefight in the cavern, once started, would butcher the majority of the force.

  "Look around you. How many of these Kessentai do you think are doing more about their oolt'os than assuming they are fed?"

  "Very few," Cholosta'an admitted. "I see many oolts who appear to be underfed and with poor equipment. I'm sure the Kessentai have many problems as I do, but I also doubt that the reason their oolt look so terrible is that they can't afford to trade for resupply."

  "Agreed and agreed," Orostan said with a hiss of humor. "The host cannot make good every piece of junk shotgun and broken strap this flock of poorlings has brought with it. But we have more than sufficient thresh'c'oolt for the host. But it is not my duty, not my 'job' as the humans would put it, to care for every oolt'os in the host. So, why am I ensuring that your oolt is cared for? And, by extension, why are you under my . . . guidance?"

  "I . . ." The young Kessentai paused. He realized that no one had ever told him that he should care for his oolt. It just seemed . . . natural. It would be through his oolt that he could, pe
rhaps, take new lands and acquire possessions to make his life better. Without his oolt, functioning well, he would be nothing but a Kenstain. "I do not know."

  "The reason you are working for me is the appearance of your oolt," Orostan said. "When I was told to go choose from among the new forces I chose on the basis of how the oolt looked, not how it was armed as some of my equals did. Your armament is, frankly, crap. But it is well cared for."

  "It was all I could afford," Cholosta'an admitted. The shotguns that the oolt'os carried were the simplest, and therefore, cheapest systems available. And even at their small cost, the debt he had incurred was ruinous.

  "Perhaps," Orostan admitted. "But a light railgun costs less than twice as much as a shotgun. And it is far more than twice as effective. Why not have half the number of oolt'os and railguns? Or, better, a third and a mixture of railguns and missile launchers. If you had that you would have a far smaller force to look at, but it would be much more effective."

  Cholosta'an thought about it for a moment. It was a new concept; the assumption was that more was better. And he knew why. "The . . . the Net assigns spoils on the basis of how much you have contributed to the Taking. To . . . to get the best spoils, the best lands and the functioning manufacturing facilities, requires that you have more oolt'os, a larger and more powerful oolt." He paused. "I think."

  "The net assigns spoils on the basis of effect," Orostan said definitively. "If you had half your number of oolt'os and railguns you would have a greater effect, everything else being equal, than your current balance. At some point in the future I may ask you to release half your oolt'os; will you?"

  "If..." The young Kessentai paused again. "If you think it best."

  "I do," the oolt'ondai said meditatively. "We'll sell off the guns—I know a Kenstain that specializes in that sort of thing and we'll get a good transfer on them—and re-equip the remainder more heavily. The released oolt'os will go to the Kenstains who are working on the encampments and will be . . . 'supporting' us when we move forward." He hissed grimly. "Better that than the alternatives."

  "What is the 'alternative'?" Cholosta'an wondered. "Thresh, one would presume."

  Orostan hissed in laughter. "There are worse things than becoming thresh. We have to have something to clear these human 'minefields.' "

  The younger Kessentai looked around at the thousands of Posleen normals in this single cavern. "Oh."

  "Waves of disposable oolt'os for the minefields, oolt Po'osol for the walls, the tenaral to pin them in place and destroy their hated artillery and then, my young Kessentai, we feast."

  * * *

  The rest of the shoot had been without incident as Elgars demonstrated a tremendous proficiency with each of the weapons in the bag. She could strip down an MP-5, Glock .45, Steyr assault rifle and an Advanced Infantry Weapon, prepare any of them for firing and fire each expertly. But she didn't know any of the names.

  All of her shots were in the "sniper's triangle" area of the upper body and head. Her reloads were fast, smooth and perfect and she always reloaded immediately after all targets had been engaged. That last was a clear indication of background in special combat techniques. But she did not recognize the term.

  Now they carefully made their way back to her room. It was apparent that Elgars now recognized the roundabout path for what it was; an attempt to avoid security. She seemed mildly amused about it.

  "S'okay fer me to c-c-carry?" she asked, hefting the bag of weapons.

  "Technically, yes," Wendy answered, checking a cross corridor before she stepped into it. "Technically, you can't move around without weapons. But security is so anal-retentive about guns they freak whenever anybody is carrying."

  "No gu' here?" Elgars asked, shifting the bag uneasily.

  "Oh, there are guns aplenty," Wendy answered with a snort. "Well, not aplenty. But there are guns, pistols mostly. Hell, there's plenty of crime here if you don't know where to go and what to avoid. And people break into the cubes all the time, what they call armed invasions. You can get any kind of gun you want if you know who to see."

  "So, why no . . . ?" Elgars stopped frustrated by her inability to speak clearly.

  "Well, 'less guns, less crime,' right?" Wendy said bitterly. "It's part of the contract on the Sub-Urbs; they are zero weapons zones. When you get inprocessed, they take away all your weapons and hold them at the armory, which is up by the main personnel entrance. If you leave, you can reclaim them."

  "So, leave," Elgars said slowly and carefully.

  "Haven't you been following the news?" Wendy asked bitterly. "With all the rock-drops the Posleen have been doing it's the beginning of a new ice-age up there. It's a record low practically every day; you can't move for the snow and ice from September to May. And there aren't any jobs on the surface; the economy is shot. Then there's feral Posleen."

  "F'r'l?" Elgars asked.

  "The Posties breed like rabbits," Wendy said. "And if they're not around a camp, they drop their eggs at random. Most of them are fertile and they grow like crazy. Since there's been landings all over, there have been eggs scattered almost across the entire U.S. Most of the feral ones can survive in the wild quite well, but they flock to humans for food. They're as omnivorous as bears and have absolutely no fear of humans; they tend to attack any person that they run into. So it's like having rabid Bengal tigers popping up all over."

  Wendy shook her head sadly. "It's bad down here, but it's hell up there."

  Elgars looked at her sideways. The way that Wendy had said that didn't ring quite true. After a moment she frowned and nodded uncertainly. "Joi' s'cur'ty?"

  Wendy shook her head angrily at that, striding along the corridor. "I don't have the 'proper psychological profile,'" she snarled. "It seems that I'm 'uncomfortable with my aggressive tendencies' and 'present an unstable aggression profile.' It's the same excuse that was used for why I couldn't join ground forces. Catch-22. If you're a woman and you think you'd make a good soldier, you must be unstable. Same for security."

  "S'crazy," Elgars said. "No women 'n s'cur'ty?"

  "Oh, there are women," Wendy answered with a snort. "They wouldn't have a security department if there weren't; all the males that aren't Four-F are in the Ground Forces or buried. But the women in security are 'comfortable with their aggressive tendencies.' "

  "Huh?" Elgars said as they came to another cross corridor. "Whuh that m'n?"

  "Well, what do we have here?" a voice asked from the side as an alarm began to beep. "If it isn't Wendy Wee. And who's your friend? And why don't you keep your hands where I can see them. And put the bag on the ground and step away from it."

  Wendy moved her hands away from her side as the three guards spread out. All three were wearing blue vaguely military looking uniforms, bulky body-armor and ballistic helmets. Two were carrying pulser guns, short barreled weapons vaguely resembling shotguns that threw out small, electrically charge darts. The darts transmitted a high-voltage shock that would shut down the human, or Posleen, nervous system. The leader, a stocky female, had a charge-pistol dangling from her hand. The GalTech weapon projected a line of heavy-gas that acted as a charge carrier for a massive electrical field. The weapon was short ranged, but it was capable of penetrating all but the most advanced armor.

  "Hello, Spencer," Wendy said with a thin smile. "My 'friend' is Captain Elgars. And she is authorized, as you know, to carry whatever she wants."

  "I could give a shit what you say, Cummings," said the leader. "I've got you dead to rights smuggling guns." Spencer turned to Elgars and gestured at the bag with her charge-pistol. "Put down the bag and step away from it or you're going to get a taste of my little friend."

  Wendy glanced over at Elgars and blanched. The captain was still as a statue, but it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a stillness of fear. The redhead was staring at the guard like a basilisk and it was clear that she was on the ragged edge of violence.

  "Annie, put down the bag and show the nice guard your ID,
slowly," Wendy said.

  "Shut up, Cummings," snarled the guard sergeant stepping up to Elgars and tapping her on the chest with the pistol. "Are you going to put down that bag or are you going to drop it 'cause you're twitching on the floor?"

  Elgars slowly looked down at the pistol then held the bag out to the side and dropped it. As it fell she reached up and twisted the pistol out of the sergeant's hand. A short flurry of hand motions had the weapon in nine pieces which she scattered across the corridor. The captain reached down as the guard started to draw her truncheon and seized Spencer's wrist in a bone crushing grip.

  The guard sergeant froze, caught by pit-bull-like grip and the lambent green fire of the captain's eyes; the two other guards didn't have a clear shot since their team-leader's body was in the way. Elgars slowly reached into her hip pocket and extracted her ID pack. She flicked it open a handspan away from the struggling guard's eyes and cocked an eyebrow. "Now, are y'all gonna put them sticks away, or am I gonna stick 'em up yo' ass?" she said in a soft, honey-smooth southern voice.

  "Let go of my wrist," Spencer ground out, wrenching at the viselike grip.

  "Tha's 'Let go of mah wrist, ma'am', " Elgars whispered, leaning into the guard sergeant so that she could whisper in her ear. "And if you don't quit struggling Ah'm going to feed you yo' arm, one inch at a tahm."

  "Let go of my wrist, ma'am," the guard ground out. As the pressure from Elgars' grip increased instead, she ground out a: "Please."

  Elgars relented and Spencer finally wrenched her arm away. She shook her wrist, trying to get some circulation back in her hand, and it was clear that she would prefer to just leave the confrontation. But her pistol was scattered all over the ground. She looked up at the captain, who over-topped her by at least an inch.

  Wendy smiled brightly and stepped behind Elgars to pick up the bag. "We'll just be going now," she said, grabbing Elgars' arm. "Right, Captain?"

  Elgars leaned forward and looked carefully at the guard's nametag. "Yes," she said softly. "O' course. Ah'm sure we'll be seein' quaht a bit of each othah, won't we, Sarn't . . . Spencer is it?"