When the Devil Dances

The general walked up behind his former aide with a glance at Mike’s staff. The group of officers and NCOs kept a respectful distance, also looking to the east and conversing in low tones. Most of them were young, like the commander, and all had learned in a hard school. But Horner understood the difference, the reason they were not starting to act oddly; they didn’t have the added weight of command.

From the very first contact with the Posleen, O’Neal had been in one position of command or another. Frequently, in the early days, these were thrust upon him unexpectedly. And unlike Horner he had not had the time before the war to come to terms with the weight of responsibility or the little tricks that commanders learned to manage the load. The result was his psychological management techniques took unexpected and, arguably, unwise directions.

No question, it was time for a break.

“Morning, Mike,” said the general.

“You will note that it is Tuesday,” the major said, standing up. “And while we are not in Syracuse that is not our fault; I was informed that to go further would be ‘logistically insupportable.’ Thanks for the armor support, by the way.”

“It’s okay,” said Horner. “We got back Savannah. And, believe it or not, there are no problems anywhere in the Eastern U.S. As a matter of fact, the worst I have to worry about is a globe in Georgia that’s not acting the way it should.”

The ACS commander turned around and looked up at the much taller general. “So you’re telling me we’re going west.”

“Nope,” said the Continental Army Commander. “You’re not going anywhere. Except back to Buffalo for at least a week of R R.”

Mike frowned. “Harrisburg?”

“The assault got beaten off. And we managed to slip in a resupply of critical parts so they’re back in full form.”

“Roanoke?”

“The 22^nd Cavalry retook the forward positions. And the Posleen look like they’re licking their wounds. Actually, they’d better be ’cause General Abrahamson boxed ’em in and pounded them into scraps. He couldn’t get a good count, but it looked like over two million lost there. Better than Richmond.”

“Chattanooga?”

“Hasn’t been a probe in a couple of months.”

O’Neal tugged at the collar of his armor and worked his neck around nervously. “California?”

“There hasn’t been any activity in weeks,” Horner sighed. “Mike, you need to take a break. You’re propping your feet on dead Posleen and screaming ‘eat me’ at my corps commanders.”

“You heard about that, huh?” the major asked without chagrin. “He deserved it, though. We’d been ready to move out for two hours when his first unit showed up.”

“Probably,” Horner admitted. “But you still need a break. There’s not enough time for you to go see Cally, though. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” said the ACS commander looking around as if awakening from sleep. “I just… I don’t know what to do, Jack!”

Horner snorted. “Keep your battalion on standby, but one day recall is fine. I’ll go tell Duncan; he can handle the details. Go back to Buffalo. Get some dress greens, flash the medal around, get your tubes cleaned. You’re a widower, not an ascetic.”

“That’s cold, Jack,” O’Neal said with a touch of anger.

“And that is something you haven’t figured out, yet,” the general responded. “War is cold. You have to be colder.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, wiping his gauntlet over his face and glancing at the head of the God King with distaste. “Maybe a couple of beers are in order.”

“Two weeks,” Horner said. “After that there’s that globe landing in Georgia I want you to go check out. I had the local corps commander put a Fleet LRRP team on it, but they don’t appear to be moving. So take a couple of weeks. Besides, we’re getting ahead of the game on SheVas and I sent SheVa Nine down there to backstop Fourteen. If two SheVas can’t handle it, what’s the point of sending the ACS, right?”

“Okay,” O’Neal said. “I got the picture.” He took one last look at the marshes and hills to the east. “All in all, though, I think I’d rather be in Georgia.”

“I need you functional, Mike. This war has cost us too many good soldiers already.”

Mike nodded and scratched at one of the newer gouges on his suit. The nannites would eventually clean it up, but the repairs left visible traces like scars, slightly off-color. The sign that a suit had seen wear.

“Did you really tell that SheVa colonel to run me over?” he asked.

“Who?” Horner said with a frown. “Me? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“ ’Twas a terrible cruel thing to do,” Mike grumped. “I got half a dozen ports clogged.”

“Face it, Mighty Mite,” Horner said, slapping the suit lightly on the shoulder. “You needed a good shellacking. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.”

Mueller crouched on the slope above Bridge Creek Road and regarded the bridge sourly.