When the Devil Dances

“Your speech is already improving,” Wendy pointed out. “Maybe the psychs will let you go soon.” They had arrived at Elgars’ quarters and she shook her head. “Maybe you should write to your commanding officer and ask him to intervene. Even though you’re on hospital status you’re still on his books. He’s got to want to get you back. Or get you off the books. And he can’t do that without the shrinks getting off the fence.”

“How d’ I d’ that?” Elgars asked with a frown.

“There are public e-mail terminals,” Wendy said. “Let me guess, they didn’t tell you you have e-mail access, right?”

“No,” Annie said. “Where?”

“Do you have an address for your commander?” Wendy wondered. “If not, I bet I know who could forward it…”

CHAPTER 9 Near Cayuga, NY, United States, Sol III 1723 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

— Rudyard Kipling

“Recessional” (1897)

Mike sat in the sunshine on Fort Hill looking down over the interleaving ridges and marshes running north and south from Lake Cayuga to Lake Ontario that comprised the Montezuma Defense Zone.

The terrain had been perfect for the human defenders; with all the roads and bridges cut, the Posleen assaulting out of fallen Syracuse had been cold meat in the first days of the war. Whether slogging through the numerous marshes or rushing the slab-sided hills they had fallen by the hundreds of thousands. And human losses, while high, had been a bare fraction; it was believed that the Battle of Messner Hill had achieved over one thousand Posleen deaths for every human defender.

Therefore, the decision to retreat barely a month into the war had been a critical blow. It had been on the plains between Clyde and Rochester that the Ten Thousand was born and the ACS died. It was in the politically driven decision to defend every hamlet, to counterattack every hilltop, that six divisions of veteran soldiers had been turned into food for the alien invaders. In the process, over three thousand M-1 tanks and two thousand irreplaceable suits had been lost. It was on the Ontario Plain that the war was nearly lost.

But now it was all returned. The Posleen, once broken in the brick-dust ruins of Rochester U, had run. And the ACS and the Ten Thousand hammered them for it. The Ten Thousand needed no encouragement; from the lowest buck private to their commander, every single soldier believed in “keepin’ up the skeer.” And any time a Posleen force turned at bay they would call on the supporting artillery and ACS.

That last, however, had cost the ACS battalion dear. Every suit was precious and they had lost better than two dozen troopers or suits in the pursuit. Supposedly a few new ones were on the way. But when they arrived would be problematical.

Looking down over the sparkling marshes, though, Mike had to believe it was worth it. The Ontario Plain was the weakest point in the Eastern U.S. With it back in human hands not only was there defense in depth — unlike at the beginning of the war the plain was now being covered with line after line of trench works — but the strongest points were held by veteran soldiers that knew the Posleen, however fierce, were not invincible. Posleen could die and their crested heads made great decorations over a mantelpiece.

Mike didn’t even raise his head at the sound of a helicopter behind him. That was the definitive sign of a secure area; any aircraft was vulnerable to God Kings’ fire and helicopters were worse than planes. If a helicopter was buzzing around it meant that all was right with the world. He smiled and recrossed his feet on the headless God King propping them up. Life was good.

Jack stepped out of the OH-58 and shook his head. It looked like the orders he brought were none too soon. There were quite a few signs that both the 1^st/555^th and the Ten Thousand needed a break. But the crests that some of the Ten Thousand troopers had attached to their rucksacks was nothing compared to the head of a God King stuck on an upthrust sword. The dripping yellow trophy had stained the weapon, probably the God King’s own boma blade, and pooled under the ACS commander.

But Mike didn’t seem to notice that little fact or the smell, despite having his helmet off. He just kept looking to the east, towards Syracuse and the distant Atlantic. Towards the enemy that held the plains.