When the Devil Dances

When Sergeant Buckley grabbed the brass, though, the power, having found a conduit, went to work. And he was suddenly hit by 220 volts of AC power.

Buckley stood in place, shaking for a moment, until all the breakers for the sector blew out.

“Damn,” said Wright. “That’s gotta hurt. You didn’t have to blow him to hell to prove your point, Alejandro.”

“I didn’t,” the specialist replied, pulling an injector of Hiberzine out of the first aid case. “Call the medics while I start the CPR. Tell ’em Buckley’s having a bad day again.”

* * *

“Come!”

Lieutenant Sunday walked into the company commander’s office and came to the position of attention. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

“You don’t have to pop to attention every time you come in, Sunday,” Slight said with a smile. “Bowing will suffice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, starting to bow.

“Oh, cut it out.” She laughed. “Look, Lieutenant, I know it’s Saturday, but we’re in a bind. First Sergeant?”

It was only then that Tommy noticed First Sergeant Bogdanovich in the corner, lounging like a leopard on the company commander’s couch.

Boggle’s brow furrowed and she leaned forward urgently. “Lieutenant, several suits in the company have a critical shortage of biotic undergel. Since it’s a Galtech controlled substance, it can only be released to a qualified Fleet officer.”

“I’m hereby appointing you Armory officer for the company,” Slight continued. “I want you to go over to S-4 and find all the undergel you can lay your hands on. Clear?”

“Clear, ma’am,” Sunday said, snapping to attention. “Permission to leave?”

“Go,” Slight said seriously. “And don’t come back until you have it; we really need to get the suits up to speed.”

After the mountainous lieutenant was well clear of the room the two women exchanged glances and then First Sergeant Bogdanovich, veteran of countless battlefields, gave a very uncharacteristic giggle. “Two hours.”

“Less,” Slight said shaking her head. “He’s no dummy.”

* * *

Lieutenant Sunday marched into the office of the S-4 NCOIC, who started to get to his feet.

“At ease,” the lieutenant said waving his hand. “Rest even.”

“Good morning, L-T,” the staff sergeant said. “What can I do for you this fine… er… Sunday morning.” The combination of the name of the day and the officer’s name clearly had him baffled.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sunday said. “I’ve dealt with it all my life; I’m used to it. The CO sent me over here to draw some undergel. I’ve been designated the ‘Armory Officer’ so I’m cleared.”

“Ah, undergel, huh?” McConnell said with a frown. “I think we’re about out, sir. The Indowy used it up fitting suits last month. We’ve got a shipment on order, but… well, you know how the Galtech supply line is.”

“Damn,” said Sunday, nodding his head seriously. “All out, huh? There’s not like, you know, one can, someplace? Or maybe a short case hiding under somebody’s desk?”

McConnell looked at him sidelong for a second then nodded. “Well, I think there might be a can in the battalion headquarters,” he answered on a rising note.

“Gee,” said Sunday, putting his hands on his hips. “Maybe I should run over to battalion and see the… ?”

“Battalion commander,” McConnell answered.

“You sure?” Sunday asked, honestly surprised. “It’s not like, oh, I dunno, the S-3 NCOIC or, maybe, the sergeant major?”

“Nope, L-T,” McConnell answered, definitely. “Major O’Neal. He has the can of undergel. Or so I have been given to believe.”

“Right,” Sunday said, getting to his feet. “Here I go to see the Battalion Commander to Get Some Undergel. See? And, oh, by the way, Sergeant.”

“Yesss?” asked McConnell.

“I think maybe you should call the BC and tell him I’m coming over,” Sunday said with a feral grin. “But, maybe, you should leave the… overtones of our conversation out.” He leaned over the sergeant’s desk and smiled in a friendly manner. “Okay?”

“Okay,” McConnell said with a grin. “Whatever you say, L-T.”

“Apropos of nothing whatsoever, Sergeant,” Sunday continued, straightening up. “I feel constrained to mention that I’m something of a student of the Armored Combat Suit. And, if memory serves correctly, the suits generate their own underlayer nannites. What do you have to say that?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say, L-T,” the NCO said with a smile.

“I’m also constrained to mention, sarge, that when someone in the military refers to the other by their bare rank, or a negative derivation thereof, such as the name of a bottom-feeding fish, it is generally a sign that that person does not truly respect the individual, whatever their rank. What do you have to say that?”

The NCO laughed. “I wouldn’t say a damned thing to that, sir.”

“Call me Tank, Sergeant McConnell,” Sunday said on the way out the door. “All my friends do.”

CHAPTER 22 Newry Cantonment, PA, United States, Sol III 0923 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad