Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  “Beats me,” she shrugged as she motioned to the cart. “Hop in! Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool wants to speak with you.”

  Tychus swore under his breath as he walked around to the passenger side. Had he been assigned to a shit detail of some sort? Yes, probably. He was both surprised and worried. Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool was in charge of both the 3rd Battalion and the base. So if he wanted to talk with a lowly private, then it was probably because of an infraction. But what? There hadn’t been enough time to steal anything.

  Still, Tychus had no choice but to get in the cart and allow himself to be transported to the command center. Suddenly Tychus was painfully aware of the fact that his uniform was wrinkled and his boots were in desperate need of some polish.

  But there was nothing Tychus could do about those deficiencies as he followed the sexy little corporal inside, stepped onto the lift platform, and walked into the well-furnished waiting area outside the base commander’s office on the observation deck. Tychus caught a glimpse of Vanderspool through his open door, as he sat on the corner of his desk chatting with an officer.

  Tychus got the impression of a man whose handsome features had begun to blur as a result of age and too much good food. Vanderspool was, according to what the corporal had said, just in from the field. But if that was the case, Tychus couldn’t see any signs of hardship as he examined the officer’s starched uniform and immaculate boots. A hands-off type then, somebody who preferred to sit around and shoot the breeze with staff officers, rather than spend time on the front lines.

  The visitor laughed at something Vanderspool said, got up out of the guest chair, and exited the office. That was when the corporal stuck her head in and said something Tychus couldn’t hear, before motioning for him to enter.

  Tychus took three steps into the office, came to attention, and announced himself. “Private Tychus Findlay, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Now that Tychus was closer he could see that Vanderspool had hard eyes, a tracery of broken veins that wandered over the bridge of his nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. “At ease,” Vanderspool said approvingly. “Sorry about the short notice, but I’ve been commuting between the fort and Hobber’s Gap, where we’re about to push the KMs back into the disputed zone. Please, have a seat.”

  The tone had been congenial so far, so Tychus felt somewhat relieved as he sat down, but still on guard. Because he’d been summoned for a reason, and odds were he wasn’t going to like it.

  Vanderspool had circled the big desk by that time. The executive-style chair sighed as he lowered his weight onto it. “You have an interesting record,” Vanderspool commented, as he plucked an old-fashioned letter opener off the desktop and began to toy with it. “You worked your way up to staff sergeant, struck an officer, and were sent to a correctional facility on Raydin III.”

  The officer paused at that point, but Tychus knew better than to speak. Some officers like to run their mouths, and Vanderspool was clearly one of them. But where was the one-sided conversation headed?

  “It’s only fair to remind you that you are on what amounts to parole,” Vanderspool continued sternly. “One word from me and you’ll be back in a correctional facility.” His voice darkened. “And if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. If you mess with me, boy, you might just end up a prisoner in your own body. Scan me?”

  Tychus had no idea what Vanderspool was referring to and didn’t want to find out. And technically, he wasn’t on parole, but it didn’t seem up for discussion. Besides, he wanted to get the hell out of there, so Tychus gave the answer that every officer likes to hear. “Yes, sir.”

  “But,” Vanderspool said, brightening. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I’m going to give you this.”

  Vanderspool slid a patch across the table. Tychus couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw three inverted chevrons. “That’s right,” Vanderspool said. “You’re a sergeant again. Not a staff sergeant like before—you’ll have to earn that rocker, but a buck sergeant. Congratulations!”

  Tychus was not only shocked, but exceedingly pleased, because sergeants have more opportunities to steal things than privates do. “Thank you, sir … thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” Vanderspool replied indulgently. “The battalion suffered a lot of casualties during the last week—and I’ll find a slot for you in one of my line companies.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tychus said. “In the meantime, could I ask a favor?”

  “Well, that depends,” Vanderspool answered. “I’m afraid a pass is out of the question at the moment.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t anything like that,” Tychus assured him sanctimoniously. “If I can make a difference during the next few weeks, then I’d like to do so.”

  THE RAFFIN BROTHERS MINE NEAR FORT HOWE ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Having received the necessary order, the Kel-Morian rippers were armed and ready to attack. There were dozens of them, all standing in a rough semicircle and wearing the flat black armor for which they were famous. The last-minute briefing by Foreman Oleg Benson wasn’t absolutely necessary, but was appreciated, since they were a close-knit group and fought for each other as much as for the Kel-Morian Combine.

  There was very little chance that the Confeds would pick up a comm unit signal originating from underground, but rather than run that minimal risk, Benson ordered his troops to listen with visors open. “All right, men,” he said, as his voice echoed off the walls of the mine. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The eve of what will be one of our most celebrated victories.

  “Think about it… . We are only miles from Fort Howe, the base has been stripped of personnel to fight our regulars up in the mountains, and those who remain don’t know we’re coming! Who could ask for more?”

  The reply was the time-honored cry of “HEGERON!” which paid homage to the famous battle on a Kel-Morian mining world named Feronis. According to legend, a gang of armored rippers had taken on an entire battalion of motorized infantry on the plain of Hegeron and defeated them. The extent of the victory had probably been exaggerated over the years, but it was still a point of pride.

  “That’s right,” Benson agreed. “Tonight is the night to remember not only the battle of Hegeron, but the evil that dwells in the high-rise towers of Tarsonis, where members of the Old Families grow rich off those who slave in their factories. Like Kel-Morian soldiers everywhere, the rippers will never forget that workers have a right to a fair wage, to basic social services, and to free elections!” And by that, he meant wealth, possessions, and power. What else was worth fighting for?

  The cry of “HEGERON!” was much louder this time, and a fitting moment for Benson to close his visor, which was a signal for the others to do likewise.

  Then, walking single file, the warriors made their way up to the surface, where near total darkness was waiting to cloak them. They split into smaller teams at that point, turned toward the west, and began to jog. Smaller predators, those to whom the night normally belonged, scattered in every direction. Death was on the loose and it was time to hide.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “UNN broadcasting offices were closed earlier today as Confederate officials moved in to confiscate ‘seditious and slanderous materials’ in the station’s library. This action follows the unauthorized airing of actual war footage by unknown individuals within UNN. Confederate investigators are currently searching for any leads to the whereabouts of these traitors.”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN September 2488

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  One of the planet’s moons was still arcing toward the western horizon, the lights were turned down, and Raynor was lying on his rack listening to some very retro tunes that Kydd had passed along to him when the door to the dormitory-style barracks room slammed open, and a basso voice said, “Hit the floor! It’s time for all of you ladies to dance!”

  Raynor dropped his fone and
sat up just in time to see Tychus Findlay stroll down the center aisle sporting a brand-new set of sergeant’s chevrons. Oh no, Raynor thought, How the hell did I step in this pile of shit?

  “That’s right,” Tychus announced cheerfully, casting a wicked smile directly at Raynor. “Your worst fekkin’ nightmare just arrived! You thought basic sucked? Just wait till I’m done with you. Now get dressed.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Harnack said. “Who would be crazy enough to make you a sergeant?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Tychus replied, as he made his way over to where Harnack was standing. Large though he was, Harnack found himself looking up as a huge fist got a grip on the front of his shirt and hoisted him up off the ground.

  Tychus was smoking a stogie, and as their faces came level with each other, Harnack could feel the heat from the glowing red ember on the tip of his nose. Tychus exhaled and Harnack coughed. “You’re the asshole with the shotgun,” Tychus observed, as Harnack’s feet dangled uselessly in the air.

  “And you’re one crazy sonofabitch,” Harnack responded insolently.

  Tychus might have bounced Harnack off the wall at that point, but Raynor was there to intervene. “You made your point, Sergeant. Hank, shut the hell up! Or do you want to wind up in the infirmary?”

  Harnack’s answer was forever lost as a Klaxon sounded and the loudspeaker over their heads came to sudden life. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool… . The base is under attack! I repeat, the base is under attack! All duty personnel will report to their pre-assigned rally points. All off-duty personnel will report for duty. Again, this is Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool… .”

  Tychus put Harnack down and squinted at Raynor. “Which rally point is Echo Company supposed to report to?”

  Raynor shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re in a holding company waiting to be slotted into a line unit. We’ve been reporting to a supply sergeant on a temporary basis and pulling shit details for days. We didn’t have any noncoms until now. I was the acting squad leader.”

  Tychus eyed Raynor and frowned. “How long have you been a lance corporal?”

  “About a week,” Harnack chimed in. “Ever since we kicked a starload of Kel-Morian ass at Firebase Zulu!”

  “Well, at least you bunnies have seen some action,” Tychus allowed grudgingly. “Get your weapons, gear up, and grab all the ammo you can carry. At least some of the Kel-Morians will be wearing armor—but we don’t have time to suit up. Put on your chest protectors, and remember ladies, the zipper goes in front.”

  The orders set off a mad scramble as Raynor, Harnack, Kydd, Zander, and a marine named Connor Ward rushed to get ready. The building shook from a series of explosions as Tychus slipped into his body armor. The cigar was still clenched in his teeth and some ash cascaded down over his chest protector as he fastened the straps.

  “The noise you heard was a set of demolitions charges going off,” Tychus predicted. “So it’s safe to assume that the bastards are on base by now.”

  “Good,” rumbled the husky, dark-skinned Ward as he settled a pack loaded with extra rockets onto his broad back. “I want to kill as many Kel-Morians as possible! It’s payback time.”

  “I’m gonna light those bastards up!” Harnack proclaimed enthusiastically, as he came forward to stand next to Ward. He was wearing protective goggles plus a two-tank backpack. He held the flamethrower’s tube-shaped igniter across his torso the way a mother might cradle her baby.

  Like Ward’s rocket launcher, the flamethrower was a squad weapon that would normally be assigned to someone with the proper training. But given the circumstances, and with no one to tell him no, Harnack had appropriated the weapon for himself and was clearly eager to try it out.

  “So where are we going?” Zander inquired pragmatically, as he pointed the stubby barrel of his grenade launcher at the ceiling. “I say we defend the officers’ club,” he quipped dryly. “That’s where the important stuff is.”

  “I think we should head for the armory,” Raynor put in, as the insistent pop, pop, pop of small arms fire was heard in the distance. “That’s what the Kel-Morians will try to destroy first.”

  Tychus realized that Raynor was correct, and, not having a plan of his own, was quick to agree. “General Raynor has the right idea. Let’s go, girls, on the double!”

  The six-man squad slipped out of the barracks just in time to see one of the fort’s elevated turrets fire a salvo of missiles at an unseen target and then explode as two Kel-Morian Hellhounds roared overhead. The light generated by the explosion strobed the surrounding buildings and left afterimages floating in front of Raynor’s eyes as he followed Tychus down onto the half-lit street.

  Someone—it wasn’t clear who—was firing flares up into the darkening sky. They went off with a distinctive pop, and threw a ghastly green glow across everything below, as tiny retros lowered them to the ground.

  A firefight was underway up ahead, and as the squad drew closer, Raynor saw that a group of lightly armed marines had taken cover behind a plascrete blast barrier as a trio of Kel-Morian rippers marched toward them. The flat black armor was hard to see, or would have been without the light from the flares, which threw long, hard shadows toward the embattled marines. Projectiles sparkled as they hit the enemy armor, and two grenades exploded harmlessly in front of the enemy grunts. They were rocked back on their heels, but recovered and kept on coming.

  “Ward!” Raynor snapped as the group continued to advance on the barrier. “Can you reach them?”

  “I can and I will,” the marine rumbled, stepping between a couple of marines and raising the launcher. “Watch out for my back blast.”

  There was a loud whoosh, followed by a roar, as the armor-piercing round raced up the street. It scored a direct hit on the Kel-Morian who was at the center of the three-man formation. The result was a loud boom followed by a reedy cheer, as pieces of the ripper flew in every direction.

  But as Ward worked to reload his single shot launcher, the enemy grunts were closing with the marines, firing as they came. Raynor saw two men fall as Harnack readied his weapon.

  “Eat this!” Harnack proclaimed as he pointed the igniter over the barrier and pulled the trigger. A gout of fire shot up the street, wrapped a ripper in a fiery embrace, and set him to dancing inside a cocoon of orange-red flames.

  Zander dropped a series of grenades into the conflagration, and the resulting explosion sent the Kel-Morian’s helmet and head shooting straight up, trailing fire as they went. Then there was a flash of light as the suit came apart—and shrapnel flew in every direction.

  That was spectacular stuff, but not as amazing as what occurred next, when Tychus jumped the barrier and charged the remaining grunt with his weapon blazing! As the two of them collided, Tychus bowled the ripper over and landed on the Kel-Morian’s chest. It shouldn’t have been possible, but Tychus was not only bigger than most men, but amped on adrenaline as well. He brought his rifle butt down on the other soldier’s visor, swore when it didn’t shatter, and hit it again and again.

  The Kel-Morian was trying to buck Tychus off, but the marine was already in the process of bringing the rifle butt down for a sixth time. As solid metal smashed into the face beyond the visor—a sliver of bone was forced up into Foreman Oleg Benson’s brain.

  Raynor, who had been rushing to help, skidded to a halt. “Damn! Remind me not to piss you off!”

  “Too late for that,” Tychus responded, as he got up off the corpse. “But at least you and your girlfriends know how to fight… . That’s more than I expected. Come on! Let’s head for the armory!”

  Without helmets or comm units, the squad had no way to communicate with the command structure as they ran up the street. Not that it made much difference, because while there were pockets of organized resistance, chaos ruled.

  Nowhere was that more evident than in the vicinity of the armory, as the squad crossed a parking lot littered with a dozen dead marines and began to close in on a brightly lit lo
ading bay. One truck was already halfway down the street and another was in the process of pulling away. That left two more in the final stages of loading. A guard hut offered momentary cover for the group. Kydd was the last one in. He broke out a window, placed his weapon on the sill, and began to scan.

  “Damn it!” Raynor exclaimed, as two rippers opened fire from the shadows. “What’s going on here?”

  “They’re stealing stuff, that’s what’s going on,” Tychus replied knowingly, as spikes buried themselves in the plascrete and the noncom jerked Raynor back out of the line of fire. “Which is real interesting because you’d expect the KMs to blow the place up!”

  Raynor’s mind was racing. “That’s right! How long since the first announcement? Fifteen minutes max? They must’ve been loading at least some of those trucks before the attack began!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tychus replied in mock amazement, “you aren’t as stupid as you look! So General, let’s kill those fekkin’ rippers and find out where those trucks are going.”

  It was a good idea, but before the squad could act on it, all of Fort Howe’s surviving turrets began to fire missiles up into the inky black sky as three Kel-Morian transports loaded with troops came in for a landing. As some of the missiles struck their targets, orange-red blossoms appeared and Kel-Morian transports died. There was a prolonged clatter as debris fell all around.

  “There’s act two,” Tychus observed, as an explosion lit his upturned face. “An airborne assault intended to take and hold the base.”

  “Why steal arms if you plan to capture them?” Raynor demanded.

  “For the money,” Tychus growled. “Some rotten bastard knew the KMs were coming—and knew he could blame the loss on them once the battle was over. Come on… . We have work to do.”

  The other four members of the squad had engaged the grunts by then, and as the two men rounded the east side of the guard hut, heavy fire was sleeting back and forth. Then Tychus saw one of the enemy soldiers jerk as if slapped in the face. The Kel-Morian fell over backward as a second .50 caliber slug smashed through his protective visor, which was made of cheap, low-grade plasteel. “That’s some nice shooting,” Tychus observed loudly as he fired a short burst. “Who’s the kid with the long gun, anyway?”