When the Devil Dances

Epilogue

Cally fit the last package in the rucksack and prepared to exit the cave. Cache Four was designed to provide all the materials necessary for just such an escape and, after crying her eyes out and then sleeping, she had carefully prepared for a long journey. The route seemed to be up through the Coweeta area then cut across to Highway 64, assuming it was clear, then west to the defenses around Chattanooga.

Now it was time to leave but she hesitated. Despite finding Papa O’Neal’s body, she was still having a hard time believing he was gone. Or that that life was over. She just wanted one more argument, one more morning. And once she left the cave it would be an acceptance that there was no more farm, no more Papa O’Neal.

Finally, she set the pack down and pulled out a book. There was enough food and water for her to sit here for a year and the cave was both secluded and secure.

She’d think about leaving tomorrow.

The Himmit watching her from the top of the cave gave an internal shrug of puzzlement. She had been well on the way to leaving and now had paused. This made no sense to the Himmit. But that was why humans were so endlessly fascinating; they did things for no apparent reason.

He settled in for a long wait. But Himmits were good at that. And this was going to make a fine story someday.

Mosovich paused as Mueller raised a closed fist and settled on his heels. Then the master sergeant cocked his head quizzically and Jake could hear the sound as well. There was a large stream just ahead, part of the Coweeta Hydrological lab area, and the rush of the waters overwhelmed most other noises. But, faintly, he could hear what sounded like female laughter.

Wendy sat up sputtering and lowered the MP5 she had managed to keep out of the stream.

“Very funny, Shari,” she snapped, shivering. “This water is frigging freezing.”

“I can tell,” the older woman said with another laugh. “Anybody would be able to tell.”

Wendy looked down and had to chuckle. Her clothes had taken a beating in the exit from the Urb and from the vegetation of the mountains. So between the tearing and the water and the thinness of her shirt it was… more than evident that the water was cold.

“I look like a friggin’ Packed and Stacked girl,” she said, shaking her head.

“You sure do,” Mueller said, sliding down out of the underbrush. “I wish I had a camera!”

“Jesus!” Shari said, spinning in place. “Don’t do that to me!”

Mueller raised his hands at the three leveled weapons. “Hey, friends.”

“Lord, Mueller, I never thought I’d say this,” Wendy said, standing up and lowering the barrel of the submachine gun. “But you are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Likewise, I think,” the master sergeant replied. He glanced over at Shari and shook his head. “Who’s your… Shari?”

“It’s a long story,” Elgars said, raising her hand. “We’re headed to the O’Neal caches. You?”

“We’re supposed to scout forward to the Gap,” Mosovich said, coming out upstream. “But we’re moving fairly fast and light.”

“Were,” Elgars said. “We’re moving fairly fast, but we could use some help. And you’re hired.”

“Captain,” the sergeant major said severely. “We’ve been given our mission by the Continental Army commander.”

“Okay,” she said, gesturing at his AID. “Call him up. Tell him that you’ve been shanghaied by a bunch of guurrls with their kids and you don’t like it.”

“I’m supposed to be scouting,” Mosovich said. “I can’t do that dragging a bunch of refugees.”

“Oh, yeah?” Wendy said. “Just watch you.”

Sergeant Patrick Delf swept his AIW from side to side, using the night scope on it to look for targets. The area around the Blue Ridge overpass was a mass of heat signatures, but none of them were moving. Most of them were unrecognizable. He stepped forward carefully, his feet shuffling for good footing on the rubble-strewn road, and searching for threats or targets. But there wasn’t anything. Both spans, contrary to their intelligence, were down and down hard; clearing the road was going to be a bitch.

He moved closer, waving for the rest of his squad to spread to either side. The recon team opened out, each of them looking for Posleen and finding nothing.

Under the shadows of the bridge they found a trench filled with dead Posleen. Most of them were too fire-blackened to determine what had killed them, but several had had their lights punched out by a large caliber gun, probably a sniper.

The cental pylon was gone at the base. It looked like it had taken heavy fire, probably plasma or HVM, from the Posleen trench. Which didn’t make any sense unless one of them had gone completely ape-shit. There was a cooling smear at the base, but he wasn’t sure what that meant until he went to one knee, wiped at it and and sniffed his fingers. The odor of human blood, as opposed to Posleen, was distinct.

“Sir, this is Sergeant Delf,” the team leader called, touching his communicator. “The pass is clear. Some poor bastard got all the way up here and then got waxed by an HVM. But the HVM collapsed the bridge and blew plasma back on the Posleen; they’re gone.”

“Any other survivors?” the brigade commander asked.

“Not so far, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It doesn’t look good. We’re not on the other side of the bridge yet, but we can see some tracks; they got wasted, sir. I see three Abrams and two Brads from here and they’re all toast. The pass is blocked by the fallen bridges, it’s down all the way across. And the tracks are in the way. But no Posleen. The survivors kicked the shit out of them.”

“Roger,” the colonel said softly. “Is the area clear for aircraft?”

“I can’t guarantee that, sir. I don’t know what’s down the valley.”

“According to Eastern Command just a very pissed off SheVa. I’m sending a dustoff up for anyone you find, complete your sweep and get back to me. Be careful, though, it’s a long way to Rabun Gap.”

Cholosta’an shook his head as his pupils started to widen back out. Despite the secondary lids and the tightening pupils he was sure there was some eye damage. Better than what would have happened if the oolt’ondai had chosen to move forward.

“I will eat their get,” Orostan growled angrily. But even to the younger Kessentai it had a defeated sound to it.

“We’re out of elite oolt,” Cholosta’an pointed out. “And trained pilots. We have no remaining tenaral. Besonora’s oolt’ondar has been wiped out and the humans will soon retake Balsam Gap. The damned engineers have destroyed the other roads out of this valley. And Torason says that he is held from advancing up the Tennessee Valley. We must retreat while we have any oolt left at all.”

“No, we must drive forward,” Orostan snarled. “We will take that pass. And the lands beyond. We have the forces still. Take your oolt forward, gather all the scattered oolt’os that you find. Drive forward for the pass! I will gather all that are left in this area and follow.”

“Your wish, Oolt’ondai,” the Kessentai said. “I go.”

He waved for his oolt’os to attend him and moved forward. As soon as he had crossed the rickety bridge and into shattered Dillsboro he turned right, paralleling the Tuckasegee.

“Let Orostan die in his quest to ‘save the race,’ ” the Kessentai whispered. If there was one thing this world had taught him it was that to survive was enough. Let the brave die “for the good of the race.” Cholosta’an would just survive.

Tulo’stenaloor shook his head at the report from Dillsboro. He considered, briefly, telling Orostan to withhold his attack. It would take him hours to gather his forces again, what forces he had left. Finally he decided against it. First of all, the old idiot would probably ignore him and attack anyway. Second, slowing the advance of the forces headed for the Gap was a worthwhile goal. When the metal threshkreen finally arrived, he was going to lose the pass to the humans, temporarily. But just give him some time and he could get it back. They would be low on ammunition and power and he could push them out with time.

“All I ask is time.”

Mike walked out the hole where the back wall of his office used to be and didn’t look back; he was pretty sure he’d never see it again.

The battalion was drawn up in “chalks” before their shuttles. All twenty-two shuttles had landed on the parade field and had been loaded with weapons and equipment, including the critical power packs and antimatter Lances. All that was left to do was load the troops and maybe give a little speech.

The problem with that was that even the “newbies” knew they were going on a suicide mission. It was an important suicide mission, one that couldn’t be more vital. But if any of them survived it would be fairly remarkable.

There was also the fact that even the newbies had been on darned near continuous combat operations for between two and five years. These were troops that had walked into the fire, eyes open, over and over and over again. And most of them had heard his speeches before.

But it was a little tradition.

Mike removed his helmet, but set the AID to amplify his voice and faced the assembled battalion.

“On October 25, 1415, near Calais, France, a small band of Englishmen under the English king Henry the Fifth faced the entire French army. This battle was called ‘Agincourt’ and it occurred upon St. Crispin’s Day.

“Although outnumbered by five to one odds, they inflicted terrific casualties upon the better armed and armored French, thereby winning the day.

“An offhand remark of King Henry was later modified by William Shakespeare into the famous ‘St. Crispin’s Day Speech.’

“Throughout the history of man, small forces facing overwhelming odds have been remembered in storied song. The small Greek force at Marathon that defeated a Persian force that outnumbered it a hundred to one. The Rhodesian SAS team that accidentally ran onto a regimental review of guerrillas and wiped them out. The Heroes of Thermopylae. The Alamo. The Seventh Cavalry.”

He paused and looked around at the silent, blank-faced suits. He knew from experience that better than half of them were composing an e-mail or listening to music or looking for some new and better porn. But what the hell.

“Given our situation, I think the last three are most significant,” he continued, pulling out a dip and putting it in. Spitting to clear his mouth, he looked at the sky. “Today we fly to take and hold a pass. We will do so until we are out of bodies or power or ammo. I’m not sure which we’ll run out of first. All things considered, probably bodies.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. In years to come, men at home now in their beds will think of this day and do you know what they will say? ‘Jesus, I’m glad I wasn’t with those poor doomed ACS assholes or right now I’d be dead.’

“But what the hell; that’s why they pay us the big bucks. Board ships.”