When the Devil Dances

“Nope,” Mosovich said. “If anybody wants us, they can page us; I can get to corps headquarters as fast from here as from my barracks. We’re on duty anyway; the orders that I got cut say so. And both the food and the scenery are better here,” he finished, winking at Wendy.

“So there,” Wendy said, sticking out her tongue. “And I think that Annie’s doing better here than in the Urb.”

“I do too,” Elgars said. “I don’t know if it’s the air or the food or what. But this is the first time I’ve really felt… alive. Whole.”

“Well, if we’re not an imposition,” Shari said one last time.

“If you were an imposition, I wouldn’t have insisted,” Papa O’Neal said with a grin. “I’m looking forward to feeding you up,” he continued, poking at her ribs. “You’re too skinny. Skinny, skinny, skinny.”

“That, frankly, sounds heavenly,” Shari said with an almost giggle, slapping at his hand until he desisted. She ended up holding his fingers and released them. But not too quickly.

“It is nice,” Wendy said with a smile as she leaned back and stretched. “But it has been tiring. I think we should all go to bed…”

Mueller suddenly coughed hard. “Oh, sorry,” he gasped, quickly looking away.

Wendy stopped in mid stretch and regarded him out of lowered eyelids. ”… And I was going to say, ‘and get some rest for tomorrow.’ Master Sergeant Mueller, have I ever shown you a picture of my boyfriend?”

* * *

“Oh, my,” Captain Slight muttered. “I think he must have been the biggest one in his class.”

First Sergeant Bogdanovich suppressed a snort. Bogdanovich, Boggle to a very select few veterans of the battalion, was a short, muscular blonde whose fine skin was as translucent as paper from years in suits. She had been in the battalion since before its first blooding and she thought she had seen it all. But Boggle had to admit that the first lieutenant reporting to the company commander was rather oversized. He actually seemed to have trouble making it through the door straight. She hoped there was a suit that was fittable to him. On the other hand, he looked like he could survive an HVM round to the chest without one.

“Sar… Lieutenant Thomas Sunday, Junior, reporting to the commanding officer,” Sunday said, rendering a hand salute.

Sunday wondered at the timing of this meeting; the majority of the company had been released and he could hear the racket of their settling in throughout the barracks. But the officers and NCOs were apparently still going strong. He’d noted that was usually the case in the Ten Thousand, unlike his first Ground Forces unit, and he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Slight said. “This is First Sergeant Bogdanovich. Later she’ll be introducing you to your platoon sergeant.” Slight paused and went on delicately. “It seems that you might have recently been promoted…”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sunday admitted. “I was promoted to first lieutenant about five minutes before I left the Ten Thousand.”

Slight smiled as the first sergeant chuckled. “Well, you have to admire Cutprice’s chutzpah. What were you before you were so abruptly promoted? A two L-T?”

“No ma’am,” Sunday said with a frown. “I was a staff sergeant.”

“Hmm,” Slight muttered with a frown. “I’ll have to think about that one. I think the message we were supposed to get was that he thinks you’d make a good ACS platoon leader. What do you think of that?”

“With all due respect, I don’t particularly like it, ma’am,” Sunday admitted. “Lieutenants don’t get to kill Posleen. I wanted suits to kill horses, not to pull George and ‘determine zones of fire.’ And… there are some benefits to being a Fleet sergeant or a Ground Forces staff that you… don’t have as a lieutenant. Besides getting to kill horses.”

“I tell you what, Lieutenant,” the captain said with another slight smile. “Let’s slot you in at platoon leader for the time being. And if we decide it’s not right for you, we’ll break you back to sergeant with no hard feelings; Fleet Strike moves people around like that all the time with no real effect on their record. How does that suit?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Sunday rumbled.

“Have you met the battalion commander?” she asked. “He wants to meet any officers we receive.”

“No, ma’am. I was told to report to the company commander first.”

“Okay,” she said. “AID?”

“Major O’Neal is in his office reviewing the training schedule,” the AID said promptly. It had a deep male baritone unlike most of those Sunday had heard, which seemed to be all female. “His AID says he’d be happy for the interruption.”

* * *

Mike nodded at Sunday and returned his salute. “Chill, Lieutenant,” he said as a grin violated his habitual frown. “Sit, even.”

The office was small, smaller than the company commander’s and like hers almost completely unadorned. Behind the major a private from the rear detachment was up on a step stool painting in a motto on the wall. So far he had gotten to “He who” in thick black, Gothic lettering.