When the Devil Dances

"Where?" Cally asked.

"Barwhon," Mueller interjected. "We were both on a recon team that was sent out before the expeditionary force even got there. We were guinea pigs to see how dangerous the Posleen really were."

"You can't remember that time," Mosovich said. "But . . . there was a lot of disbelief. 'Alien invasion? Right, pull the other one.' That got dispelled pretty quick when a high-level delegation on Barwhon got eaten, and the tape got back to the World. Anyway, we were on a recon of Barwhon doing an order of battle and analysis of the terrain and fighting conditions . . ."

"Bad and bad," Mueller said.

"I guess we did our job too well," the sergeant major continued. "We got a call to capture a Posleen and return it. I figured that we could capture one of the nestlings easier than an adult so we attacked a camp that was also holding some Crabs as a walking larder. When we did, the Posleen turned out to be a bit better at fighting than we had given them credit for. All the stuff we know now; the sniper detection system and the way they just swarm to the sound of fighting. Anyway, we lost a bunch of real legends in the special operations community, including our sniper, Staff Sergeant Sandra Ellsworthy. The description of your flashback correlates exactly to her death."

"Yep," Mueller said. "I thought the same thing. It's like listening to Sandra tell it, complete with the southern accent."

"You know," Wendy said. "That's hardly coming out at all anymore. The accent I mean."

"Anyway, that's why we freaked," Mosovich said.

"What do you think?" Elgars asked quietly. "Do you think that the Crabs put your friend's head in mine? Am I A

"Not really," Mosovich said. "Ellsworthy was . . . stranger than you are. Spooky weird. You seem a lot . . ."

"Stabler," Mueller said. "Don't get me wrong, on a mission Ellsworthy was great. And she was a good sniper trainer. But she was a wild-child when she wasn't in uniform; you've got ten times her stability in many ways, even with your head not completely screwed on."

"Why thank you, Master Sergeant," she said tartly.

"No offense, ma'am," he said hastily.

"So, how does this affect your report to Colonel Cutprice?" she asked Mosovich.

"I think I'll just send him a message with the whole crazy story," the sergeant major replied. "You move good in the woods and we know you can shoot. If you were a private or a staff sergeant it wouldn't be any question. But for a captain he'll have to make up his own mind. For what it's worth, I think you could learn to do the job."

"Thanks," Elgars said. "I have to wonder. And I have to agree I don't know what else might be buried in the depths of my mind. Or, really, who I am."

"Oh, I think you'll get over that," Mosovich said. "Although it brings a whole new meaning to 'getting to know yourself.' Long term, I think you'll be fine. Well, as fine as any of us are these days."

He looked into the living room where Papa O'Neal and Shari were now dancing to "Magic Carpet Ride." "Some of us, of course, are doing better than others."

O'Neal walked over holding Shari by the hand and gave them a sort of wave. "Night, folks. We're kind of tired so we're calling it a night." With that they both walked towards the stairs, hand in hand.

"Well, will you look at that," Cally said bitterly. "Tell me not to go downtown!"

"They're both old enough to make a rational decision about it," Wendy pointed out. "Old enough to be your grandfather in one case and your mother in the other."

"And he's old enough to be her father," Cally pointed out.

"The Koran says that the perfect age for a wife is half the man's plus seven years," Mueller intoned. "That makes you still too young for me. In fact," he looked at the ceiling and fiddled on his fingers. "I think that means the perfect age for a guy for you would be . . . yours."

"On the other hand . . ." he said, turning to Wendy.

"Hang on a bit," she said, reaching into her back pocket.

"Ah, hah!" Mosovich exclaimed. "It's the notorious boyfriend picture."

Mueller took it and looked at it with a grin on his face. Then he looked puzzled for a moment followed by shock. "Jesus Christ." He passed it over to Mosovich.

Wendy was in the picture, gri

"That's your boyfriend?" Mosovich asked.

"Yeah," Wendy said. "He's an NCO in the Ten Thousand. Six foot eight, two hundred and eighty pounds. Most of it muscle.

"We met during the Battle of Fredericksburg. Well, not really. We went to school together for years. Let's just say I never really noticed him until the Battle."

"Well, do I have to wait to be rescued in the middle of a battle?" Cally asked. "Besides, I'm more likely to do the rescuing."

"No, but you should wait a few more years before you go making any life commitment decisions," Wendy said with a laugh.

"I get the point," Cally said with a shake of her head. "Noted and logged. Okay?"

"Okay," Wendy said.

Elgars stood up and walked over to Mueller, tilting her head to the side. After a moment she leaned down and yanked one of his arms over her shoulder then got her shoulder into his midsection and heaved him up over her shoulder. She bent her knees a couple of times experimentally then nodded her head.

"I can do this," she said. There was no note of strain in her voice.

"What, exactly, are you doing?" Mueller asked, hanging more or less vertical. He noted that his head was just about at the level of her derriere.

"As far as I know, I've never been to bed with anyone," she answered, walking carefully towards the stairs. "You'll do."

Mosovich opened his mouth and raised his finger as if to protest, but then lowered it. Since he and Mueller were Fleet and Elgars was Ground Force it didn't, technically, fall under the fraternization regulations. As long as they survived the stairs, everything should be fine. He downed his moonshine and looked at the table with trepidation.

"I think that leaves it up to us to clean up," he said. "Since I choose to avoid the wrath of both the boyfriend and the local farmer."

Cally sighed and started stacking plates. "One of these days," she said, looking towards the stairs.

* * *

"One of these days there will be some good news," Monsignor O'Reilly said, looking at his newest visitor.

The Indowy Aelool made a grimace that was the Indowy equivalent of disagreement. "Why should there be good news? It is not the trend by any stretch of the imagination."

The four foot tall, green, "fur"-covered, bat-faced biped was swinging its feet back and forth in the chair like a little child for all it was probably over two hundred years old. Unlike virtually every Indowy in O'Reilly's experience, the Clan Chief of the Triv Clan, all fourteen of them, never seemed worried or flustered by the presence of humans. Either it realized bone deep that humans, omnivores though they might be, were not going to suddenly kill it for some mistake, or it was almost preternaturally courageous. O'Reilly had never figured out which it was.

"Oh, just some minor good news would do," O'Reilly said, waving the message. "Our old friend is on his way back to Earth. He should already be here, as a matter of fact."

"Dol Ron," the Indowy said calmly. "So I had heard. I wonder what mischief he is up to this time?"

"Well, the first visit we lost Hume, shutting down the only official group that was closing in on the secret of the Darhel," the monsignor said. "The second the Tenth Corps was hacked and the hacking was pi