When the Devil Dances

The Franklin Sub-Urb had a particularly bad reputation and he wasn’t surprised. Half the escalators on the personnel entrance they used had been out of order and the reception area was scuffed and filthy with trash and dirt piled up in the corners. And the security point, an armor-glass-fronted cubicle something like a movie theater ticket booth, was even worse. Every shelf in the booth was piled with empty food containers, half of which were filled with cigarette butts.

Realistically, though, the conditions weren’t too surprising. Not only was it one of the oldest ones, meaning that it had people from the first refugee waves when the Posleen were really hammering civilians, but its proximity to the corps support facilities had only managed to degrade the condition. They’d had to catch a ride from their barracks in the Gap to Franklin and it was apparent on the ride that even though the Line forces in the Gap weren’t the greatest, the support groups were worse. No wonder they’d placed the Urb off limits; he’d have kept these “soldiers” out and he was a soldier. And from what he’d heard the first few months when they hadn’t kept the soldiers out boiled down to a sack.

No wonder the security was jumpy about letting them in. Especially armed.

Mosovich shifted his rifle as the female guard returned with an older male. The newcomer was overweight, but not sloppily; it was clear that a good bit of the body was muscle. He was wearing rank tabs for a security major which meant he was probably the senior officer on duty. No wonder she’d been gone for a while.

“Sergeant Major—” the security officer said, looking at the e-mail orders, ” — Mosovich?”

“The same, and my senior NCO, Master Sergeant Mueller.”

“Could I see some ID?” he asked.

“Okay,” Jake said, fishing out his ID card and gun orders.

“This is fairly irregular,” the security officer continued. “We have a few personnel that have open permission to pass back and forth. But for all practical purposes no military personnel are permitted other than that.”

“Unless they’re on orders,” Mosovich said. He supposed that he could bow and scrape and it might help. But the hell if he would to this Keystone Kop outfit.

The officer carefully considered the two IDs and then sighed. “Okay, it looks like I have to let you in…”

“Then would you mind opening the door?” Mueller growled.

The officer put his hands on his hips. “First, a few words…”

“Look, Major…” Mosovich leaned forward and peered at the badge, ”… Peanut? We’re not support pogues. We’re not the barbarians you had coming down here before. I may look 22, but I’m 57; I was in the Army when you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye. We’re here on a mission, not to fuck around. And there’s only two of us; if your department can’t take down two soldiers then you need to shitcan it and get some real guards. And, as you noted, we’ve got qualified passes. So open the door.”

“Well, that covers part of it,” the major said dryly. “Here’s the rest. People down here don’t have guns. They don’t like guns; they’re afraid of them. Except for the ones that want them and will gladly take yours if you give them half a chance. Carry them slung across your back, not combat slung. Make sure you maintain control of them at all times. If you lose one, I guarantee you that the corps commander will make your life absolute hell.”

“He’d be hard pressed,” Jake said. “We’re Fleet. But I take your meaning.”

“Okay,” the major said with a sigh, activating a solenoid. “Welcome to the Franklin Sub-Urb.”

* * *

Mueller shook his head as they passed through another one of the open gathering areas. “Strange looks.” The sprite turned left out of the commons and onto another slideway.

“Yeah,” Mosovich replied. “Sheep.”

Mueller knew what he meant. The people of the Sub-Urbs were giving them the sort of look sheep gave sheepdogs. They knew that the dog wouldn’t bite them. Probably. This time. But they definitely did not like to see the uniforms or the guns. To sheep, all sheepdogs are wolves.

“Probably worried about an attack,” Mosovich added.

“I would be,” Mueller agreed. The Sub-Urb was an easy drive from the front lines; whatever idiot put it this close should be shot.

“No way out,” Mosovich said. “Stupid.”

“Lots,” Mueller contradicted. “All marked. And the armory at the front.”

Mosovich just snorted. If the Posleen ever came up the Gap, the people in the Sub-Urb were so many food animals caught in their pens. And with the Armory on the upper side of the Urb, unless they got the word in very good time, the Posleen would be sitting on their weapons.