Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  Once the roll had been called and the inspection was over, the prisoners were marched across what had originally been a parking lot before the Confederacy had acquired the rock quarry from its owners for use as Military Correctional Facility-R-156. There were twenty-three prisoners representing the marines, rangers, and the fleet.

  The low, one-story kitchen and attached mess hall had originally been built for use by the quarry’s employees, who presumably enjoyed better food than the crap the prisoners ate every day. On that particular morning the entrée was generally referred to as SS. That stood for “squib special,” which consisted of dried meat drenched in a watery gravy, served on a piece of soggy toast.

  It was disgusting, but given the lack of other options, plus the heavy labor that was expected of them, the prisoners had no choice but to choke the salty mess down and chase it with massive quantities of water. And that, according to a medic who had been sent to R-156 for going AWOL, was a deliberate strategy to prevent hyperthermia.

  A lot of fuel was required to power his big body, so Tychus ate his share and accepted donations from others. He had just gobbled his last bite when the Klaxon sounded and it was time to follow the other prisoners outside, where Bellamy ordered them to form a column of twos and led them up a switchbacking road.

  The noncom was jogging, so the prisoners were forced to do likewise, and to Bellamy’s credit he was in good shape. So much so that he ran backward part of the way, swagger stick clamped under his arm, yelling cadence as he did so.

  Five minutes later they arrived on a level area where two of the trucks used to haul rocks down to the flatlands were parked. The quarry was located at the end of a narrow canyon with steep slopes on three sides. The process of mining the rock was primitive, to say the least—Tychus figured the added danger was part of the punishment. Explosives were used to separate tons of rock from the mountain above. Then more explosives were used to make the big pieces smaller before they were loaded into the cart, which was emptied into one of the waiting trucks.

  But before the grueling process could begin, it was first necessary to fall in for another head count. And while that was taking place, Tychus knew the rest of the prisoners were looking at the rusty metal box that was sitting in front of them—and thinking about the man locked inside. When Sergeant Bellamy opened the box, would Sam Lassiter be alive or dead?

  Lassiter had been sentenced to serve five days in the cargo container for spitting in Bellamy’s face. Of course Bellamy had “boxed” prisoners for less serious infractions. And being boxed for more than a day or two was usually a death sentence. Especially given the cold nights and the fact that Bellamy provided the subjects of his wrath with only ninety-five percent of the supplemental oxygen they needed to stay alive. But Lassiter had already been locked away for three days, and some of the prisoners thought he might even make it to four. Tychus wondered when it would be his turn; Bellamy had threatened him on plenty of occasions, and it was only a matter of time before he followed through.

  The steel container was eight feet high, four feet wide, and eight feet long. It was furnished with a single blanket, a pail to crap in, and a plastic jug full of water. Food was delivered twice a day via a narrow slot. As Bellamy unlocked the door, Tychus knew what the noncom wanted to see, which was a body lying on the floor. Because if Lassiter died inside the box, it would prove that prisoners couldn’t beat the system or Bellamy, assuming there was a difference.

  Rusty metal squealed in protest as Bellamy stood to one side and pulled the door open. That was when the prisoners saw Lassiter. He was not only alive, but crouched over a pail, with his pants down around his ankles. “What’s wrong with you perverts?” he croaked. “Give a guy some privacy.”

  All fear of Bellamy was momentarily forgotten as the prisoners broke into laughter and the noncom slammed the door and locked it. Then, having turned his back to the box, Bellamy glared at the now silent prisoners. “Okay, girls, the fun is over. There’s a pile of rocks waiting for you—”

  That was when Lassiter shoved his hand out through the food slot, got a grip on Bellamy’s belt, and jerked the sergeant up against the door. The prisoner stabbed the noncom through the slot with his breakfast fork. He was still at it, plunging the tines in again and again, as Bellamy yelped, and the guards broke the sergeant free.

  “You’ll pay for this!” Bellamy raged, as a corporal kneeled down beside him, cut his shirt away, and slapped a plastiscab over the bloody puncture wounds.

  Judging from the amount of blood, Tychus figured it would take more than a bandage to close up Bellamy’s wounds. He smiled and silently thanked Lassiter for brightening his day.

  “I wonder where they’re taking him,” Tychus inquired of no one in particular.

  “I hear they have a special place for guys like Lassiter,” the man standing next to Tychus said. “A place where they can get inside your head and screw around with it.”

  “I don’t know what they’re gonna find in there,” Tychus replied unsympathetically. “But they got their work cut out for ’em.”

  The prisoners watched calmly as armed guards wrestled Lassiter to the ground. He was yelling unintelligibly, growling, and snapping his teeth as they shackled his wrists. Once he was restrained, they took him by the elbows and led him down the road.

  Lassiter jerked his arms away and proceeded to walk under his own power. He had a thatch of unruly hair, many days’ worth of stubble on his face, and wore the filthy remnants of a uniform. But in spite of all that, there was something regal about his bearing. You are a truly magnificent sonofabitch, Tychus thought.

  Next came Bellamy, who limped along with the help of a guard until a groundcar swung by to pick him up. Tychus lifted his face toward the bright sky, closed his eyes, and smiled. He was sure that Bellamy’s absence would take him off the hook where the cart was concerned.

  “Fall out and take a short bio break before proceeding up the slope,” Corporal Carter ordered. “Findlay, prepare to haul the cart.” Damn. The peon had his orders and was determined to enforce them.

  That was when Tychus spotted Bellamy’s precious swagger stick lying on the ground in front of the steel box. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, so no one had noticed it.

  Tychus knelt next to the stick and pretended to tie his boot lace as he scooped it up. One end went up his pant leg, the other into the top of his boot. Then, having secured his prize, it was time to head uphill.

  With the single exception of Tychus the prisoners were herded past the wooden ramp upon which the cart sat, and up to the big pile of broken rocks that awaited them. Tychus was ordered to tow the cart up the incline so the others could load it.

  The air was beginning to warm up a bit by then, so Tychus stripped down to the waist before making his way over to the dented cart. Coffinlike, it sat on parallel tracks and weighed three or four hundred pounds. Normally two or even three prisoners were assigned to haul the container up the five-percent grade, so Tychus knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  But faced with a choice to either ask for help or fail a test of strength, he was determined to succeed. So, taking hold of the thick rope used to pull the cart uphill, he passed it over one massive shoulder and leaned forward. With nothing else to do for the moment, guards and prisoners alike stopped to watch.

  Tychus’s shoulders were nearly forty inches across, and as he put his head down and began to pull, the onlookers could see cord-like muscles ripple as metal squealed and the cart’s wheels began to turn. Steps had been cut into the rocky slope, and rather than think about the amount of weight he was pulling, Tychus focused on the placement of his feet instead. One foot, and then the other, each taking him closer to his goal. Finally, to the accompaniment of light applause, he made it to the top, where a lever-operated metal plate came up to block the cart’s rear wheels.

  Not even Corporal Carter questioned Tychus’s right to take a break as chunks of granite were loaded into the metal box, the first truck was backed int
o place, and the brake lever was thrown. The track rattled noisily as the load sped downhill, slammed into a pair of stops, and tilted forward. The rocks made a hollow booming sound as they landed in the truck. Then, with that accomplished, it was time to repeat the whole process again. And so it went as Tychus and the cart made four additional trips up the slope before the Klaxon sounded and it was time for a box lunch that consisted of soggy sandwiches, a cup of fruit, and an energy bar that most of the prisoners saved for later.

  Unfortunately, Bellamy arrived along with the meal. He was seemingly none the worse for wear in the wake of Lassiter’s attack, and immediately began to prowl the area, looking for things to complain about.

  But as Tychus chewed and watched Bellamy’s movements, he thought he saw a pattern. The runt wasn’t just wandering around—he was looking for his stick! Because if he announced that the implement was missing, and one of the prisoners came across it, Bellamy knew it would be destroyed. Especially given how many people had been hit with it. Tychus could feel the sore spot where the damned thing had been rubbing his leg and couldn’t resist a grin. Here at least was something to enjoy.

  Exactly thirty minutes after the lunch break had begun, it was over. Then it was back to work, with Bellamy in charge this time, constantly shouting insults at Tychus.

  For his part Tychus was starting to tire. What had been difficult earlier was nearly impossible now. His feet felt as though they were made of lead, time seemed to slow, and it became more difficult to breathe even though he was still receiving supplemental oxygen through the nose-hose. “What’s the matter, Sergeant?” Bellamy scoffed, from two feet away. “Is the workout you wanted too much for you? How ’bout I give the job to someone else? All you have to do is ask.”

  Tychus couldn’t reply—there wasn’t enough extra energy for that—so he kept on going as Bellamy walked along next to him. Finally he heard a clank as the metal plate came up to block the wheels, and Tychus knew that particular journey was over.

  Tychus felt slightly dizzy, not to mention thirsty, but knew it was important to focus. Would Bellamy see the bait? And if he did, would it be possible to engineer the rest of the plan? The answer came quickly.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Carter called out. “Look down there … between the tracks and about halfway up the slope… . Is that your swagger stick?”

  Tychus followed the pointing finger and was satisfied with what he saw. Having been surreptitiously washed off during the lunch break, the swagger stick was easy to see and Bellamy immediately set off to retrieve it. Tychus waited for the noncom to take half a dozen steps, saw him step between the tracks, and shouted, “No!” But the noise of the machinery operating nearby drowned him out, as he lunged forward, appearing concerned for Bellamy’s safety. A carefully targeted hip bumped into the prisoner in charge of the brake lever. He fell against the handle, there was a clang as the plate fell, and the cart began to roll.

  Bellamy was bending over the swagger stick by then. He looked up in response to the ominous rattling from above. That was when he threw up his hands as if to stop the steel box, realized his mistake, and turned to jump clear. But there wasn’t enough time. His throaty scream was cut short by a meaty thump, as metal met flesh and Bellamy was sucked under the cart and split into three chunks of bloody meat.

  Everyone was in shock, including Corporal Carter, who feared that he might be blamed for the accident. Rather than go after Tychus, who had been heard shouting a warning, the noncom chose to blame the hapless brake operator for throwing the brake handle. He was sentenced to five days in the box but lasted only two. It was, as Tychus put it, “a damned shame.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Once my eye is locked tight on my quarry, the whole world just goes quiet. Almost peaceful. It’s just me, my target, and my heartbeat softly measuring out the last seconds of that poor sucker’s life. When the job is done and I can put the rifle away … well, that’s when I like to make the world get noisy again!”

  Private Ryk Kydd, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II July 2488

  THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  A one-hundred-yard-deep free-fire zone surrounded Turaxis Prime and was intended as a last line of defense should the base be attacked by Kel-Morian ground forces. The strip of raw, vegetation-free dirt was mined, regularly swept with a variety of scans, and surrounded by weapons emplacements.

  Having weathered nine long weeks of training without a pass, and with graduation ceremonies scheduled for the next day, more than a thousand recruits were streaming toward Gate Alpha. It was the closest gate to the town of Braddock.

  Even though the town’s civilian community might complain, the truth was that they looked forward to the river of money that was about to flow through town, even if there was some collateral damage as a result.

  As Ryk Kydd passed through Gate Alpha and followed a jubilant group of his peers toward the delights that waited beyond, he felt the same sense of excitement that he had during his last day on Tarsonis. In this case it was because, hijacked or not, he was about to become a real honest-to-God marine! And that meant doing what marines do when they go on liberty, which is raise hell.

  Not alone, because there was no fun in that, but with his buddies Raynor and Harnack. They weren’t the sort of people Kydd had been exposed to on Tarsonis or been allowed to associate with. The bond between the three of them had been forged during the third week of training, when they wound up on the same shit detail, and Kydd had figured out a way to reprogram a maintenance robot to do the job for them.

  As a child he loved taking the Bennet family’s bots apart and putting them back together again—usually with half a dozen parts left over. But practice made perfect, and he was correct: a maintenance robot could be taught to peel potatoes.

  So Raynor and Harnack were waiting when Kydd cleared the free-fire zone and arrived in front of a bar so famous that its name was tattooed on thousands of arms, legs, and other body parts throughout the Confederacy. Because tradition required each boot to hoist his or her first pre-graduation beer somewhere inside the sprawling maze of rooms that the owners called Bloody Mary’s before continuing down Shayanne Street to enjoy the pleasures beyond. All three of the recruits wore maroon kepis, gray waist-length jackets with maroon trim, and matching trousers with knife-edge creases. Their shoes were mirror-bright and relatively unworn—they had always been reserved for inspections and little else.

  Kydd exchanged clumsy shoulder bumps with Raynor and Harnack, who both chuckled with amusement at Kydd’s continued struggle to adopt their basic social customs. For weeks, they had been tutoring him in everything from using slang words, to making a bed, to using a sonic mop, and he’d already made a great deal of progress. They were proud.

  In fact, all three teenagers had changed significantly since starting boot camp. They were lean, strong, and in Kydd’s case, a good deal more confident. The miniature sniper’s rifle that he wore on his left breast pocket was a source of pride to both him and his buddies. “So, how did it go?” Raynor asked. “Did Macaby believe you?”

  “He said he was going to bump my case up to division,” Kydd answered. “So I ought to hear back in a week or two.”

  “Make that a month or two,” Harnack put in cynically. “Still, that’s good news, buddy, because the minute the ol’ man springs you, we’re gonna have one helluva party! And you can buy.”

  Kydd knew it wouldn’t go down like that, and so did Raynor, but both were used to allowing Harnack to be Harnack. “Well done,” Raynor said, as they turned toward Bloody Mary’s. “Now for that beer and some decent grub! I’m tired of the crap they serve in the mess hall.”

  “Roger that,” Harnack agreed. “Form a single column, follow me, and don’t take prisoners.” With that, he turned on his heel and strutted through the crowd, waving his arms and hollering, “Make way for His Eminence, the Emperor of Tarsonis… .”

  An hour and a half later the threesome left Bloody Mary’s thirty
credits poorer, having consumed two beers each, plus enormous steaks and huge servings of the fried potatoes that the bar was justifiably famous for.

  It would have been completely dark by then on many planets. But thanks to Turaxis’s three small moons, all of which reflected light onto the surface on clear nights such as this one, nights were no more than six hours long and were preceded by a long, moody twilight.

  Music pounded as they walked down the street, and even though melodies changed from bar to bar, the backbeat seemed to remain the same as a man grinned at them from a doorway. Chemicals that had been injected under his skin made it glow bright blue. “We have girls, men … all nude, all hot, and all yours!”

  “Thirsty, boys?” a tired-looking woman with long, luminescent hair droned from atop a rickety stool. “Every third drink is free—and we got the best band this side of Turaxis.”

  “I’m the guy you’ve been looking for,” a binked-out drug dealer said, as he sidled up to Raynor. “Crab, snoke, turk … I have it all.”

  “Some turk might amp things up a bit,” Harnack suggested, stopping abruptly in his tracks.

  Raynor turned around and brushed the dealer off. “Not today, man.” He nudged Harnack to keep moving. “Don’t worry, Hank—you’re amped enough. Hey, let’s find the Black Hole… . I hear the floor show is great.”

  The other two were ready for just about anything at that point, and happy to follow Raynor as he took a left off Shayanne and led them past a group of bored MPs to the cluster of dives beyond. That was when they saw a spectral image form directly in front of them and Harnack groaned. Multiple versions of Gunnery Sergeant Travis had been dogging them day and night for weeks by that time and had apparently followed them into town, where a network of carefully placed holoprojectors were being used to push Travis at them again.

  “So you’re on liberty, having a good time,” Travis said. “That’s when a Kel-Morian agent spots you. They only gave him one grenade, but that was enough to kill three of our boys in the Dylarian Shipyards. The war ain’t over just because you dumbasses got a pass! One grenade could kill you all.”