When the Devil Dances

by John Ringo

  Most of the remaining fire on the flat had been suppressed, however, and she noted and passed the battalion commander's orders to begin the movement to the next phaseline.

  This was when it got a tad tricky. Only one of her platoons, third, was actually going to be "on-line" with the rest of the battalion, the other two were going to be echeloned to provide cover for the left flank. This required that the two platoons wait as the battalion moved forward and string themselves out like beads along that side. She waited until about half of them had started forward and then moved out herself. After a few steps she stumbled and looked down at the Posleen she had tripped over. It was impossible to tell if it was a God King or a normal, the entire front half had been devoured by one of the 155mm impact rounds. But there was enough left to get in her way and as they progressed it was only going to get worse. She was having a hell of a time watching the whole company while also watching out for herself and she sometimes wondered how in the hell O'Neal did it.

  Mike didn't even notice, consciously, the icon for friable ground, but he stamped down, shoving his boot through the chest cavity of the Kessentai then kicking to free it as he moved on. The symbology for the ground around him would have been impossible for anyone else to read, a hyper-compressed schematic showing ground level and conditions. The original schematic had replaced a lower screen view that he had originally used after falling through ice a couple of times. Then the half screen of images had been compressed laterally until all that was left was an inch high readout stretching all the way across his view.

  His "view" of the battle, after five years of command, was nothing but a mass of icons and graphs; an external view was nothing but a distraction. He ran his eyes across the readouts with satisfaction. All the companies were moving out in good order and Captain Slight was doing an excellent job getting Bravo in position along Elmwood Avenue. Sooner or later the mass of Po'oslena'ar around the Strong Memorial Hospital, what was left of it, was going to come tear-assing down in a tena'al charge and smash into Bravo like an avalanche. As long as they waited until Bravo was fully in the groove it shouldn't matter. And so far all was in the green.

  A couple of the bridges were showing as questionable, the icons outlined in yellow. He didn't bother to try to find out why; his AID was processing data from a thousand sources and any of it could have led to that conclusion. Over the last few years Shelly had become remarkably adept at gauging the quality of units and if she said the bridges probably would take a bit longer than anticipated to move into the hot zone she was probably right. Another screen showed the symbology for the Ten Thousand getting into position.

  There were high buildings across the river and he noted the fact that Kessentai on the heights were beginning to drop. The snipers of the Ten Thousand were obviously getting into the act, using both their own weapons and tripod mounted "teleoperated" systems. At those ranges, though, it was unlikely that they could get rounds into the power storage compartments of the tenar, which was unfortunate; when one of the .50 caliber sniper rounds hit the storage crystals the unstable matrix tended to turn into a good copy of a five-hundred-pound bomb.

  The battalion had reached the Conrail line, and he ordered a short stop to get everything set. The Reapers, who had been responding to calls for fire all along, yanked charging tubes out of the huge ammo baskets welded on their backs while the regular ACS troopers checked ammunition levels and shifted as necessary. The standard suits carried hundreds of thousands of the depleted uranium teardrops but the grav-guns fired nearly five hundred a second. This meant that the suit troopers occasionally had to worry about running out of ammunition, a situation that would have been considered impossible before the war.

  Bulbous bodied medic and engineer suits moved forward supplying additional ammunition to the fighters and checking on the dropped data links. Such damage usually meant that the trooper was terminal, a DRT or Dead Right There in the cold battlefield parlance of the medics, but occasionally it was just massive suit damage that the trooper had survived. In that case, nine times out of ten, the medic would leave the trooper anyway.

  A few troopers had fallen back from the fight with serious injuries or damaged weapons. Usually anything that penetrated a suit was fatal, but, again, if the trooper survived the initial shock the suits would keep them alive until pickup, sealing the injury, debriding the wound, attacking infection and either putting the trooper out or shutting down the nerve endings depending on the tactical situation. And even such injuries as lost limbs were, at worst, an inconvenience as O'Neal was well aware; he came away from Diess with only one functioning limb. Regeneration and Hiberzine were perhaps the two greatest boons the Galactics had presented to humans and the suit troopers well knew it; most of the veterans had lost at least one limb at some point.

  Mike spit a bit of dip into a pocket in the undergel. The icons for the Posleen on the heights indicated that they were starting to get their shit together. Among other things, there were signs of Kessentai going ground-mounted. If they were also smart enough to keep their crests down, the snipers across the river were going to have a damned hard time spotting them. Even if the snipers could pick them out it was a bad sign. It meant there was a God King who knew what he was doing and could command the obedience of others. Now was when the battalion was really going to earn its pay. Time to Dance.

  * * *

  Duncan hunched forward and wished he could get a Marlboro in the suit. He'd done it a couple of times before, but the suit had a hell of a time handling the fumes. The undergel acted . . . real strange for a couple of days afterwards. He didn't know if it was toxic shock from the smoke or if it had just gotten pissed off; the underlayers developed "personalities" after a while that were still something of a mystery. But whatever the reason, he finally decided it was a bad idea and gave it up.

  Which left him trying to direct nearly a division of artillery while having a nicotine fit.

  He was watching the same icons as the battalion commander and if he didn't have Mike's instincts for how the Posleen moved he could tell they were shaping up for an attack. He'd been calling for fire from the two battalions of 155 tasked for "on call" fire, but they were half useless. He'd finally switched to using the organic mortar elements of the waiting divisions and the Ten Thousand. There were quite a few of those that were not very responsive, or bloody inaccurate, but there were also nearly twice as many of them as the artillery. Coordinating all of them was a bastard; some of them wouldn't respond to electronic commands while others would . . . but incorrectly. It left his AID "faking" his voice all over the nets. But they were starting to get some good fire going on the Posleen assembly areas just as the main force began its push.

  He took a look at the flow of the icons and wished he could scratch his head. His guess was that they were going to come down the sidestreets around PS 49. Most of them had been using West Brighton and Elmwood Avenues to move up to the flimsy crossing. If they followed the same route they'd be filing right into the "corner" of the battalion and cutting hard into Bravo company.

  The problem was time of flight. The Posleen moved more or less like horses and just about as fast. So he had to decide where the majority of them were going to be in four or five minutes, the time it took to send the order and have it turned into fire commands then have the artillery or mortars fly, rather than where they were right then.

  It was tricky. But that's why he got paid the big bucks and didn't have to be in the line anymore.

  Now they seemed to be angling towards Elmwood Avenue and with a short plea for luck to anyone who was listening he concentrated all his available fire in and around PS 49.

  * * *

  Mike noted the shifting call-for-fire icons and nodded. It was a good call and that would probably catch a large percentage of the assault. But there were still going to be leakers, through the fire and around to the sides. That was up to Captain Slight to handle and it was time to move out; the walking barrage in front of them had already c
ompleted its timed halt and was preparing to move on.

  * * *

  Captain Slight relayed the order to move out and returned her attention to the north. The massive mortar barrage was just getting into swing and the Posleen were trying hard to get ahead of it. Somewhere around the hospital there was a God King or God Kings with sense and they were not only pushing "their" forces towards the humans, but pushing the undirected mass of normals who had lost God Kings ahead of them. This was just about like herding cats, since normals that were not immediately bonded after the death of their leader caste tended to get chaotic and grouchy. But in this case there was no place for the unbonded to go but straight into Bravo.

  It started as the battalion moved out again. Most of the unbonded that were carrying heavy weapons had dropped them and most of the fire was from 1mm railguns and shotguns, neither of which was even noticeable by the suits. Unfortunately, buried in the mass of normals was the occasional one with a heavier 3mm railgun, that could penetrate a suit if the Posleen got lucky, or a hypervelocity missile launcher that could smash a suit like a walnut. And with all the bodies in the way it was hard for the AIDs to point them out for special attention.

  There was also the problem that the company could not just ignore the huge mass to concentrate on the more dangerous companies behind it. Every one of those centauroids was carrying a monomolecular boma blade. Enough chops from one of those and the suit integrity would be gone; one of the greatest fears of any suit trooper was getting stampeded by the horses.

  So as the avalanche of Posleen started down the narrow streets, dodging in and out of the rubble, the company took it under fire.

  The Indowy-made grav-guns fired 3mm droplets of carbon-coated depleted uranium that were accelerated to a small fraction of the speed of light. The carbon coating was added after it was discovered the DU rounds tended to "melt" at about ten kilometers in standard air pressure, but the carbon didn't prevent them from creating their characteristic "silver lightning" of plasma discharge. In addition, because of the relativistic speed of the rounds, when they hit a solid object they converted most of their kinetic energy into a racking explosion.

  Thus the wave of Posleen was met by nearly a hundred lines of actinic fire, reaching out to waves of racking explosions as the tiny "bullets" converted themselves into uranium backed fire. The first wave was shattered by the volley; any of the rounds that missed traveled on to hit succeeding aliens.

  Fighting the Posleen in a situation like this was often likened to trying to stop an avalanche with fire hoses and that was precisely what was happening here. As long as Bravo kept the fire up, none of the Posleen could get a good shot off before being swept away in a tide of grav-gun fire. At the same time, the mortars and artillery were thrashing them in the pocket.

  However, this was simply ground they had to cross to get to their objective. The battalion couldn't stop to wait for Bravo to kill all the Posleen around the hospital. Even if it was possible, and it probably wasn't, the mission was to take and hold the bridgehead then wait for the Ten Thousand in support.

  Bravo simply had to move out. And when they did, it would open up their flank to fire.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rochester, NY, United States, Sol III

  0633 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad

  Mike glanced at his monitors and watched the movement without expression. The worst part about it was the ammunition counters. In that one brief engagement, Bravo had used up fifteen percent of their ammunition and there was no end to the Posleen in sight. The plan had been for an orderly advance to the objective, basically a horseshoe by the Genessee Bridge, but he was pretty sure that was out the airlock. The lack of a curtain barrage and the frantic and fragmented nature of the mortar fire that replaced it meant they were going to have to run for it.

  This was exactly the situation that he had feared when he had had his confrontation with Horner. The battalion was strung out, in its most vulnerable possible position and still well short of its goal, the top of the ridge overlooking the river.

  If they didn't have the ridge the Posleen could pour fire into the bridgehead, and the battalion, from above. There would be no way to effectively direct fire and there would be no way to reduce the Posleen numbers, much less break their spirit, from in the valley. But when the ACS finally got there, the battalion would come into the view of literally millions of Posleen, millions of still unbloodied Posleen. They needed all the artillery there to suppress the Posleen fire and for smoke missions so that the normals couldn't target the battalion. So far the majority of the battalion had been able to move with relative impunity because of the supporting fire from the "better" artillery battalions. If that went away the casualties would start to mount fast.

  But there were tens of thousands of really angry Posleen starting to dig themselves out of the rubble around the hospital. And they were getting ready to fall on Bravo Company like the hammers of hell. Bravo Company needed all the artillery there to keep from being overrun. If they didn't get some support, and fast, they were going to be thresh-in-a-can before you could say "Spam, spam, spam, spam and rat."

  The only thing that would save their ass was more artillery, which they weren't going to get, or sacrificing the Ten Thousand, which he wasn't willing to do.

  There just weren't enough resources to get the job done.

  In other words, just another day fighting the Posleen.

  "Duncan, shift all artillery to the north in support of Bravo Company. Battalion . . . prepare for tena'al charge." He touched a series of imaginary keys and the scene started to change. Where before the holographic camouflage had been blending the suits into the background it now shifted to reveal larger versions of the demon worked into his own armor. As it changed the armor began to boom out a driving electric drum solo.

  "Okay," he growled, stamping downward on the dead Posleen at his feet to get a better footing. "Playtime's over. Let's kick some ass."

  * * *

  "Jesus, Mike, it's not that bad?" Horner whispered as the suit units seemed to go into hyperdrive. All of them had shape-shifted into large demonic creatures and then started sprinting for the heights, laying down a curtain of fire as they went. The silver lightning was chewing the ridgeline, sweeping away the front rank of Posleen as they came into view.

  He looked to the north and it was apparent that the company there was in serious trouble. The artillery on the hills had stopped and he could only presume that meant it was shifting to the north in support of that unit. The company did not seem to have taken major casualties yet. But there was a huge mass of undirected normals heading for it and if they could not be stopped they were going to hack the beleaguered company to bits. It was clear that O'Neal had chosen to remove the artillery support from the majority of his unit in the belief that the company could hold out. Overall it did not look like a good bet to Horner; spread out as they were, the ACS were inviting defeat in detail. They might take and hold the bridgehead, but it looked like it would be at the expense of most of the battalion.

  On the other hand, the overall requirement had been laid by one General Jack Horner. So he couldn't exactly complain when they did whatever it took to perform the mission.

  "Another day at the races," Colonel Cutprice said from the other window. "I'm not going to wait for the bridge. First Batt is fully airmobile; I'll send them across immediately using their tenars in support of Bravo company then start ferrying the rest across to support the ridge. Otherwise we're going to end this day without a battalion of ACS."

  "I'll go down and see if shouting at people gets the bridges up any faster," Horner said with a smile, his version of a frown. "And find out why the boats aren't already assembled."

  "That would be nice," Cutprice said in a disinterested tone. "It's going to be kinda lonely over there for a while."

  " 'Course, what else is new, sir?" Sergeant Major Wacleva asked. "I'll go get your body-armor."

  Horner looked over at the colonel and smiled
again, tightly. "Do you really think that is a good idea, Colonel? Leading from the front is for squad leaders, not colonels."

  "As opposed to, say, watching the ACS slaughtered from across the river, General?" Cutprice asked, pulling out a cigar and slowly lighting it. "Yeah, I think it's a grand idea." He looked east where a cloud shadow seemed to be moving rather fast and frowned.

  "Ah yes," Cutprice said after a moment. "Right on time. Wouldn't be a really screwed up battle without a five percenter."

  Horner looked to the east and up. "Well, that, at least, we can take care of." He tapped his AID and gestured out the window. "Nag, tell SheVas Twenty-Three and Forty-two to engage the approaching Lamprey at will."

  "Colonel, you know that discussion we had the other day?" Sergeant Major Wacleva asked, walking back into the room with two sets of body armor.

  "Which one?"

  "The one about 'when do you know it's really bad'?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, it's bad if the Ten Thousand shows up. And it's worse if the ACS shows up. And it's really, really bad if General Horner shows up. But the ultimate in bad has to be when two SheVas show."

  * * *

  Attenrenalslar was what the humans had taken to calling a "five percenter." Ninety-five percent of Posleen God Kings understood only the simplest imperatives. Eat, screw, fight, take territory and repeat until death. However, that remaining five percent was, in some ways, more trouble than the other ninety-five. The "five percenters" were the ones that jammed the humans' frequencies at seeming random, but always it seemed at the worst possible time. It was the five percenters that occasionally took over a fire net to the consternation of all. It was the five percenters that organized groups of Posleen to act in what was an almost concerted action. And it was the five percenters that used their Lampreys and Command Dodecahedrons as airmobile units.

  One of O'Neal's nightmares was somebody who would organize all the five percenters into one massive unit.