When the Devil Dances

Stacked on the floor, on both sides, under the racks, and in every corner all the way to the ceiling was case on case of ammunition.

“Good God,” Wendy said again. “This is…”

“Kind of over the top?” Cally said with a grin. “I haven’t even shot most of these. I still don’t know what some of them are. And you don’t even want to ask about the ammo. There’s stuff in that pile I don’t think the Feds realize they let into the country. I’ll have to check with Granpa, but most of these,” she continued, gesturing at the center and right racks, “are pretty standard weapons. You can pretty much take your pick.”

“It would just get fucked up again,” Wendy noted darkly. “I’d have to leave it at security on the way in.”

“We can drop this one with Dave,” Elgars pointed out. “I can carry it to him and he’ll hold onto it. That way you can work with it and keep it in shape.”

“If you’re sure,” Wendy said, pulling a bullpup configured rifle from halfway down one rack. “I think you have two of these.”

“A Steyr,” Cally said. “Good choice. That used to be mine as a matter of fact and I can let you have it on one condition.”

“What’s that?” Wendy asked.

Cally looked around as if anyone but the girls might hear, then shrugged. “I’ve got a few… girl questions I need answered.”

“Ah,” Wendy said with a grimace. “Well, men and women are designed to be sexually complementary…” she said in a rote voice.

“Not that kind of question,” Cally said with a laugh. “You only have to listen a couple of times to Papa O’Neal when he’s drunk and reminiscing about R Rs in Bangkok to find out all about that you need to know. No, it’s… something else.”

“What?” Wendy asked doubtfully.

“Well…” Cally looked around again as if seeking inspiration from the weapons on the walls. “Well… how do you put on eyeshadow?” she asked plaintively.

* * *

“You’re kidding,” Shari said with a laugh. She was up to her elbows in corn on the cob and she couldn’t have been happier; she couldn’t remember the last time she had fresh corn and this was from the O’Neals’ garden, a delicate hybrid that positively reeked of sugar.

“No, I’m serious as a heart attack,” Papa O’Neal countered as he sliced steaks off a beef portion. “She has no female influences at all. No female friends, hell, no friends near her age at all. For all practical purposes it has been me and the occasional screwball I let up here like this shrimp.”

“Just because I don’t look like a gorilla, he calls me a shrimp,” Mosovich said washing the potatoes. Given the suddenly descending hordes, Papa O’Neal fell back on easy and tried foods. But considering the rations that were standard among the combat troops, much less the Sub-Urbs, the meal would be ambrosia.

“He doesn’t look like a gorilla,” Shari said in an off-hand manner. “So you want me, us, to talk to Cally about ‘girl things’ while we’re here?”

“Well, I don’t want to be offensive,” Papa O’Neal said. “But… the only thing I know about makeup is how to tell when somebody has been KGB trained to apply it. And I got her a book on… well… the whole feminine hygiene ‘thing.’ I… kind of need somebody to make sure she’s doing it right.”

“Has she had her first period?” Shari asked calmly. She took a sniff of one of the ears and picked off a worm. There had been several in the corn, but she suspected that was the nature of having it fresh.

“Yes,” Papa O’Neal said uncomfortably. “I’d… laid in stocks. Fortunately.”

“Has she had to go to the doctor for ‘female problems’?” Shari asked with a smile.

“No.”

“Then she’s doing it right,” Shari said. “Why don’t you have her discuss this with her OB-GYN?”

“Uh, she doesn’t have one,” O’Neal admitted. “There’s not one short of Franklin, and that one has a several month waiting list. And the local general practitioner has talked with her about… that sort of thing. But…”

“Is it a ‘he’?” Shari asked with a grimace.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll talk to her,” she said.

“And she’s got some… control problems,” Papa O’Neal continued carefully.

“She’s going through puberty,” Shari said with a laugh. “Who doesn’t?”

“Would you marry me?” Papa O’Neal said plaintively. “Never mind. I didn’t ask that.”

“I understand,” Shari said with a smile. “This has got to be tough. I think I’ve got some of the same problems with Billy, but they’re not so obvious. Or they’re overwhelmed by the other problems.”

“That’s the… little boy?” Mosovich asked. “The one that never says anything?”

“Yes,” Shari said, stacking up the cleaned corn. “He’s been that way since Fredericksburg. He’s listening; he learns. He’s not unintelligent and he’ll even communicate through sign language, occasionally. But he never, ever, talks.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Make him a monk,” Papa O’Neal said with a grim chuckle. “There’s groups of them that are sworn to a vow of silence. Then he’ll be right at home.”

“I suppose that is one choice,” Shari said tartly.