When the Devil Dances lota-3

by John Ringo

  “All we’ve got for the surface is what we arrived in,” Shari said quietly. “Billy’s wearing a jacket I borrowed a couple of years ago. And none of the other children have anything.”

  As if on cue, Kelly pulled at Shari’s hand. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

  “That’s it,” Mosovich said. “The farm or go back to the Urb as a bad plan.”

  “I don’t want to go back underground,” Elgars admitted. “Not just yet. I… like it up here.”

  “So do I,” Shari admitted, looking up at the sky. “I miss the wind. Okay, if you’re sure this friend of yours won’t completely freak at having five adults and eight kids descend on him out of the blue.”

  “Not a problem,” Mosovich said. “He can handle anything.”

  * * *

  Michael O’Neal, Sr., pulled the Palm from his belt and frowned. Since the interesting events a few years back he had updated his security systems. The cameras at the front gate now transmitted back to a webserver that, in turn, sent a compressed video stream to the device. So he found himself looking at a Humvee piloted by Mosovich. Not a big deal, Jake had been up a couple of times in the last year. But the fading light showed that the Humvee was packed with other bodies.

  O’Neal rolled the huge wad of Red Man in his cheek from one side to the other and frowned in thought. He was not a huge man, but he had an aura of squat stolidity that was almost preternatural; it appeared as if it would take a bulldozer to move him. His arms were overlong for his body, reaching, simianlike, almost to his knees, and his legs were just a tad bandied, adding to the overall aura of a slightly annoyed male silverback.

  He jacked up the gain on the distant cameras and zoomed in on the front seat. Jake was driving and the guy next to him had to be Mueller from past descriptions. But Mueller had two kids on his lap and unless Papa’s eyes were deceiving him there was a female leaning between them. Hot diggety. Just what he’d been praying for this last few months; maybe there was a God who took care of fools and drunks.

  As he activated the gates there was a scream from upstairs like a panther with its leg in a trap.

  “WHERE’S MY GUN-SMITHING KIT?” came a shriek from above.

  Ah, Cally had apparently found something to her dissatisfaction.

  “Have you looked in your desk?” he called calmly.

  “DON’T YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, GRAMPS!” she yelled. “Of course I looked in my DESK! I keep it…”

  He nodded at the cut off sentence. Time to get out of the house before she got down the…

  “I just looked there!” she said, breathing angrily and waving the cloth-wrapped tools above her head as if she was going to use them as a weapon. The young woman was as tall as her grandfather, long of hair and leg with wide, cornflower blue eyes. Her grandfather had often considered that it was a good thing she’d gotten her looks from her mother rather than her father. But those looks, along with the fact that she was barely thirteen and a few… incidents had gotten surreptitious pictures tacked up on barracks walls. With the caption: “Warning: Jailbait. To be considered ARMED AND VERY DANGEROUS.”

  “Cally,” Mike Senior said calmly. “Calm down. You found it and…”

  “DON’T YOU DARE SAY HORMONES!” she shouted.

  “And what I was going to say was we’re about to have visitors,” he continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “Mosovich and a packed Humvee full of women and kids it looks like.”

  “Refugees?” she asked calmly, setting down the smithing kit and holding her hand out for the Palm Pilot.

  “I don’t think so,” Papa O’Neal said, handing it over and heading for the door. “Visitors at a guess. But that’s just a guess.”

  “Okay,” Cally said, unconsciously checking the H K P-17 in her wasteband. “I’ll stay back.”

  “Just follow procedure,” Papa O’Neal said. “Don’t get… don’t go overboard.”

  “Not a problem,” she said with a quizzical expression. “Why would I go overboard?”

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ,” Mueller whispered. “Who is that?”

  “That is Michael O’Neal, Senior,” Mosovich said. “I knew him a long time ago in a much hotter place we generally just called Hell.”

  “Not the guy,” Mueller said, gesturing into the shadows of the front porch. “The girl.”

  Mosovich looked again and frowned. “She’s… twelve or thirteen, Mueller. Waaay too young. Even in North Carolina.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Mueller said as the Humvee pulled to a stop. “She’s like, seventeen if she’s a day!”

  “No, I’m not,” Mosovich said coldly, holding onto the door-handle and staring at the NCO with dead eyes. “And if you want to live through the next few minutes, put your tongue back in your head. If O’Neal doesn’t kill you for being an idiot and a drain on the genepool I will. And if you somehow manage to survive both us old fucks, that little bit will kill you without a word or a whisper; there is no proof, but there is some indication that she has done so before, possibly more than once. Last, but not least, her daddy is Major ‘Ironman’ O’Neal of the ACS, Mighty Mite his own self. And if he comes after your ass he is, first of all, a Fleet officer with the legal authority to kill a Fleet NCO out of hand and second of all god-damned unstoppable. You don’t have the chance of a snowball in hell if any of the three of us think you’re going to try to make time with her. Do not make eyes at Cally O’Neal. Understood?”

  “Gotcha,” Mueller said, holding up his hands. “I don’t go for jailbait, Jake, and you know it. But… Jesus, I want an ID or something! I swear she looks like, seventeen, even eighteen!”

  “Sorry about that,” Mosovich said over his shoulder.

  “Not a problem,” Elgars said. “It was a pretty professional dressing down. I’ve filed it for future reference. Can we get out yet?”

  “Sure,” Mosovich said, taking a deep breath to clear the anger. Just let something go right today.

  * * *

  “What was that about?” Cally asked quietly.

  “Dressing down,” Papa O’Neal responded just as quietly. The throat mike was nearly invisible againt the collar of his shirt and the receiver in his ear was invisible to the naked eye.

  Just because his military background stretched back to the dawn of time, or Vietnam, which was close, that didn’t mean that Papa O’Neal wasn’t up to date. His security systems were as state of the art as he could accumulate and a few of the items were, technically, restricted to Fleet personnel only. But when you’re guarding the daughter of a living legend, people make exceptions.

  The grounds were scattered with sensors, cameras and command detonated mines and the house behind him had enough surveillance equipment in it to be a demonstrator. This had occasioned some embarrassment, in ancient times when he used to have friends in the area. From time to time he would host rather… raucous parties at which his friends, mostly retired military who had moved to the North Georgia mountains for the air and the proximity to Ranger students they could mess with, would occasionally forget or ignore that the entire house was wired for sound. And video.

  He was still humorously blackmailing people with those tapes.

  The friends were gone, now. Many of them were dead on one battlefield or another and all the rest of them had been rejuvenated and were scattered throughout the United States. He was the only one left, one used up, worn-out old warhorse that was, in the eyes of the U.S. government, too tainted to be called up under the worst duress.

  Which, fortunately, left him to guard the farm. And a Farmer’s Daughter who was practically its Platonic archetype.

  “What over do you think?” Cally asked as the door opened.

  “At a guess, ‘If you mess with Cally O’Neal you will die a quick and painless death.’ ”

  “Why?” she asked as the rest of the doors opened and people began spilling out. “He’s kind of cute. In a great big teddy bear sort of way.”

  Why me, oh lord? Papa O’Neal thought
. Couldn’t you just have killed me on some battlefield? Slowly? Under the knives of the women? Why this?

  * * *

  Wendy looked around as she unloaded Susie from her lap.

  The farm was set in a small pocket valley, a “holler” in the local vernacular, set off of the main valley that comprised Rabun Gap. The valley was an almost perfect bowl with steep, wooded sides and a narrow opening where a small river dropped down a series of cataracts. The opening to the valley was to the south and the two-story stone and wood house, which was backed up onto the north side, faced it across a checkerboard of fields. One of the fields had just been stripped of its corn and another was covered in wheat or barley that was just about ready to be harvested. Others were devoted to hay or lying fallow under clover. On the east side where the valley started to slope up was a small orchard of mixed trees, some that she recognized as pecans and others that were probably fruit trees. The western edge was devoted to a large barn and a massive rifle and pistol range.

  The house had the look of a fortress; the windows were generally small and, especially on the stone ground floor, set back in the thick walls. There was a large front porch overhung by the upper story, but that looked like a defensive item as well; anyone trying to get through the front door could be terribly discommoded by people on the upper story. On the western side, where most houses would have a garage, was a low sand-bag and wood bunker with the snout of a tarp-covered gun jutting from the center loophole and on the eastern side there was a large outdoor cooking area that clearly had seen more active days.

  She finally unwedged herself from the back of the Humvee and nodded as she stepped down from the vehicle. She had to admit that despite the cool evening, and the temperature really was dropping like a rock, this was much better than the Sub-Urb or Franklin. Now if the locals were just friendly.

  * * *

  Mosovich shook Papa O’Neal’s hand. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy here, Snake.”

  “Visitors are always welcome,” O’Neal said with a smile. “As long as they are either pre-cleared or female.”

  Mosovich laughed and shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

  “Come in to tell it,” Papa O’Neal answered. “It’s getting cold and those kids are kind of underdressed.”

  * * *

  Cally started fading backwards as the group entered the living room. It had been so long since they had had unknown visitors that her defenses were screaming about threats that didn’t exist. Finally she stopped by the couch and smiled in welcome, her left hand by her side and her right on her hip. Where it could access the H K better. It would be okay. And if it wasn’t, it would simply be very bloody.

  * * *

  Papa O’Neal saw Cally and realized she was wound tighter than a string. He knew that he had to defuse that situation quickly.

  “Sergeant Major, you’ve met my granddaughter, Cally. But I don’t think she’s met any of the rest of you.”

  Mosovich smiled and ran through introductions on the adults. “I’ll admit I don’t know the names of all the children.”

  “Billy, Kelly, Susie, Shakeela, Amber, Nathan, Irene and Shannon,” Shari said, pointing to each child. “Thank you for taking us in like this. We won’t be here long.”

  “Nonsense,” Papa O’Neal said, shaking her hand. “Feral Posleen move more after dark and, frankly, as packed into that rattletrap as you are it would be hard to defend. Except by running one over, which is admittedly a technique.” He realized he hadn’t let go of her hand and released it quickly. “No, staying overnight would be better. I insist. We have plenty of room.”

  “Uh…” Shari said, turning to look at Wendy.

  Wendy shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t have so much as a toothbrush with us. On the other hand, we’re not exactly dressed for the fall and that Humvee is pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Seriously,” Papa O’Neal said. “Stay the night. We’ve not only got beds, there’s spare clothes around; I’m the designated storage point for… well, a lot of people. And…” he looked at Wendy and Shari somewhat pleadingly, ”… I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Shari looked at him with a puzzled expression then shrugged her shoulders. “Well… okay, if it’s not an imposition.”

  “Not at all,” Papa O’Neal countered forcefully. “Not. One. Bit. Please stay. At least overnight and part of tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Wendy said. She shrugged one arm where her coat covered the shape of a rifle. “On one condition; do you guys have any cleaning kits?”

  * * *

  Cally cocked her head as Wendy rubbed naval jelly into the barrel. “You’re really pretty.”

  “Thanks,” Wendy said, looking up. “You’re one to talk.”

  They were attempting to repair the damage to Wendy’s rifle in the O’Neals’ gun room. The room was in the basement on the back side of the house, but well ventilated. It had to be; the air reeked with gun oil, propellants and solvents.

  The west wall was taken up with a workbench that included a lathe, drill press and various rotary polishers. There was also a large tumbler, some buckets of soapy water and an elaborate reloading kit. Under the workbench were blanks of metal and several barrels marked “Explosive: No Smoking.”

  The east wall had three large blue barrels, each apparently filled with solvent. Wendy was just about ready to plunk the weapon in the one marked “Warning: High Molar Acid.” But since she didn’t know what the O’Neals used it for, she was still of two minds.

  The north wall, towards the mountain, had a few gun racks and a large, heavy steel door with a numeric keypad in the center and a lever handle. It looked like the door to a safe.

  In the center was a large table, with various cleaning supplies under it and six barstools. It was around this that Elgars, Wendy, Cally, Kelly and Shakeela had grouped. Billy had started to come with them and then decided to beat feet.

  “What do you mean?” Cally asked.

  “Well… you’re friggin’ gorgeous. I’m surprised you don’t have fifteen boyfriends hanging around. I did when I was your age and I wasn’t nearly as good looking.”

  Elgars set down the disassembled trigger mechanism and picked up a corroded spring. “What’s a boyfriend?”

  Cally laughed. “Good question. There aren’t any families left in the Gap; they all moved out because of the Posleen being right over the ridge. So there aren’t any boys around to have as boyfriends. And… well, given who my daddy and granddaddy are, I’m not impressed with the quality of the soldiers. And they’re all too old for me. And only interested in one thing.”

  “Yeah, let me write the book about that one,” Wendy said with a laugh. “Fortunately I have a magic charm to use on them. All I do is show them a picture of my boyfriend and they tend to leave me alone. And I can deal with the ones that don’t.”

  “Oh, they’re not so much trouble these days,” Cally said with a shrug. “Not since I shot the 103rd Division sergeant major.”

  “You’re joking,” Wendy coughed, trying to suppress a laugh.

  “Nope,” the thirteen-year-old said with a grin. “That’s when I switched from a Walther to the H K. We were in town and this fat old soldier followed me around until he cornered me in the hardware store. He wouldn’t take no for an answer so I pulled out the Walther and put a round through his kneecap. That got his attention.

  “They initially tried to charge me as a juvenile with intended murder. Then I got the grand jury to go out to the range with me. They dropped the charges — the foreman noted that if I was attempting murder the sergeant major would be… how did he put it? ‘pushing up privet hedge’ — and charged him with attempted rape instead. I understand he’s limping around a prison to this day. Since then, and since Pappy quit letting most people come over to the farm, there haven’t been any problems.”

  “Why’d you switch?” Elgars asked. “Guns I mean.”

  “Ah, they were holding the Walther as evidence,” Cally answered wit
h a shrug. “And my hands had finally gotten big enough for the H K. Besides, that bitty little 7.62 just made a neat little hole in his knee. If I’d had the H K it would have blown the back right out of the sucker. I really regretted that when I was in juvie hall; anybody tried to cop a feel on me I want to see bits of bone on the floor. I swore I’d never use a damned little 7.62 to shoot somebody again.”

  Elgars chuckled and then shook her head as the spring in her hands snapped. “I don’t think we can fix this, Wendy.”

  “I think you’re right,” Wendy said with a sigh, putting aside the barrel. “This really pisses me off; it was a present from my boyfriend.”

  “Well, I can’t fix your present,” Cally said with a shrug, holding the separated grenade breech up to the light and turning it back and forth. “Not quickly anyway. I think I could remachine all the action parts, even the ones for the grenade launcher which are a stone bitch. But the electronics are shot and I’m doubtful about this breech. I could probably make one of those with a few days work, but really, Wendy, I think it needs to be cannibalized for parts rather than used. Whatever you ended up with probably wouldn’t be safe or reliable.

  “However, I think we can find a suitable replacement.” She walked over to the back wall, keyed in a code on the safe and opened it up. “We have a few choices in here.”

  “Good God.” Wendy laughed, looking at the row on row of racked rifles that were dimly visible in the gloom. The “safe” was really a door to a large room, apparently set back into the hillside. She walked over to the door as Cally stepped through and flipped on the light switch.

  “I think we probably can,” Wendy continued with another chuckle.