There were warm greetings as everyone gathered around to say hello to the civilian a few of them regarded as an unofficial member of the squad. And that was when Speer urged the group to step outside the shattered building for a group vidsnap.
The Devils shuffled out and gathered in a loose formation, despite Speer’s protests to “Move closer,” “look alive,” and “please, work with me, here!” They were worn out, beat up, and, though in high spirits, a couple of them still had no patience for the reporter. As they turned out to face the camera, Harnack insisted on holding his flamethrower, Zander thought it would be funny to light a cigar off of it, and Kydd hid most of his face under a boonie hat and a pair of mirrorshades. Feek was there as well, perched on top of Ward’s gauss cannon, right behind Raynor and a bare-chested Tychus. Doc, who was high on crab, sat off to the side. “Got it!” Speer said brightly as he took the shot. “I’ll call it ‘the Devils take a break.’ Our viewers will love it. So, where are you headed next? Or is that classified?”
“Raynor’s probably headed for a work camp,” Tychus said, “since Sergeant Rockwell is going to press charges.”
“And the rest of you?”
“Who the hell knows?” Tychus continued. “There’s got to be some sort of shit detail they can give us.”
Speer made a face. “Well, hang in there… . Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Feek said his good-byes and both men left. A Klaxon sounded ten minutes later, traffic began to flow south across the bridge, and the Devils were free to follow. For others, millions of them, the wars continued.
MILITARY STOCKADE-7, WEST OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Raynor’s wrist and leg irons rattled noisily as he hobbled out of Barracks #2 and began to cross the barren yard. It was surrounded by one-story buildings that were all painted the same shade of puke green with wire mesh over their windows. About three dozen other prisoners were out getting some sun, and a few hollered greetings as Raynor shuffled past. He waved with two linked hands in response.
The restraints were standard for anyone who was receiving a visitor. It wasn’t that the stockade personnel believed prisoners would try to escape—the well-secured visitor’s center made that very unlikely. No, they were intended to humiliate the prisoners, which was considered part of their punishment.
Raynor could just imagine his mother’s face, seeing him shackled like that, and his father, wondering if he’d done his son a disservice by teaching him to stand up to bullies. Because in the real world, the rules were different—or at least that was what Raynor had come to find out. This wasn’t some obnoxious kid cutting him off in traffic. This was real. Painfully and sickeningly real.
But Raynor wondered, should evil go unpunished just because it’s wielded by someone in power? Was this one of those times that his dad had described to him, when you had to know “when to get involved and when to walk away”? Plenty of times during his sentence he had asked himself, if he had the chance to live that moment over again, would he still hit Rockwell? The answer was always the same, and no shackles or chains could ever change it.
A hard-eyed resocialized marine held up his hand as Raynor approached the door. “Hold it right there, Private… . Let’s have a look at those eyeballs.”
Damn, Raynor thought to himself, they’re everywhere.
In addition to being sentenced to thirty days in the stockade for striking Sergeant Rockwell, Raynor had been busted to private, and his pay had been docked as well. Now, after twenty-eight days in the slammer he was used to being scanned, and was careful not to blink as the guard flicked the pistol-shaped device from left to right. Because to blink, and possibly interrupt the scan, was to be defiant. And that could result in a loss of privileges, including the freedom to receive visitors.
“You may proceed,” the marine said cheerfully, as he stepped to one side.
Chains rattled as Raynor was forced to hop up three stairs and open a metal door with both of his shackled hands. Once inside he hobbled across a mirror-bright floor to the check-in kiosk where a bored-looking corporal scanned him again.
Then, having been cleared, Raynor was sent to Booth #3 where Feek was waiting for him. All of the Devils had been by at various times, but Feek’s visits had been the most frequent, because the civilian had the freedom to come and go as he pleased. “How ya doin’?” Feek asked. A plasteel barrier separated them, and, as usual, Feek had to kneel on his chair in order to speak through the metal grill.
“Good,” Raynor lied. “Real good. I sure am itchin’ to get back, though.”
“I’ll bet,” Feek agreed. “The whole squad will be down in Darby two days from now. And Tychus talked your new platoon leader into letting you go, too. His name is Tyson and he hates Rockwell. So no problem there.”
“That’s great,” Raynor said enthusiastically. “I could use some R and R. That’s for sure.”
Feek grinned understandingly. “I wish I could join you … but I’ll be working overtime. A new shipment of suits came in and I’ve gotta get them up and running.”
“And my suit?”
“It’s black,” Feek replied, “just like you asked for, with the skull on the visor. It looks so badass, man. Lieutenant Tyson will shit a brick when he sees it—but that’s your problem.”
“Roger that,” Raynor agreed. “It’s time those KM bastards know that death is coming for them.”
“Maybe,” Feek replied doubtfully. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I need to tell you about. Something you should pass on to Tychus.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Feek looked left and right as if to assure himself that none of the other visitors were close enough to hear before making eye contact with Raynor. “Vanderspool sent a tech I had never met before down to run maintenance checks on about forty sets of armor—including all of the suits that belong to you guys.”
“So?”
“That’s my job. Why send a new guy? Unless somebody doesn’t trust me.
“Once the tech left I went over the suits with a fine-tooth comb. And guess what? The sonofabitch installed kill switches in every hardskin.”
Raynor frowned. “Kill switches?”
“Yeah,” Feek replied. “Meaning remotely operated switches that would enable the colonel to trigger the emergency lockdown mode and freeze your suits.”
Raynor gave a low whistle. “The rotten SOB.”
“Exactly,” the other man agreed. “So I cut the input circuits. Which means Vanderspool can push the button all day long and nothing will happen.”
Raynor grinned. “How many beers do we owe you?”
Feek laughed. “Enough for me to swim in! You watch that bastard, Jim. You watch him real good. He’s up to something and that’s no lie.”
The rest of the fifteen-minute-long visit was spent on more trivial matters, but when it came time for Raynor to hobble out into the prison yard, his mind went back to what Feek had told him. Vanderspool was up to something … but what?
THE CITY OF DARBY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The city of Darby was located seventy-five miles south of Polk’s Pride, and because it had little to no strategic importance, was almost entirely untouched by the fighting. It was a picturesque place that occupied the western shore of a beautiful lake. It was fed by the Paddick River, which meant dead bodies were swept up in fishing nets from time to time, but the city was otherwise bright and cheerful, even at night when the citizens made use of flashlights to counter the mandatory blackout.
Having completed an uncomfortable truck ride down from Polk’s Pride and checked into a so-called “military hotel,” the Devils had agreed to go their separate ways during the first evening and gather the following night. Tychus, Doc, and Harnack were headed out to sample the city’s nightlife, while Ward was intent on logging some extra rack time, and Kydd was determined to have what he called some “real food.” That left Zander, who offered to accompany the sniper.
After obtaining t
he name of a good restaurant, Kydd and Zander ventured out onto a busy street. Both wore tasteful civvies, but no one who knew anything about the area would have mistaken them for locals.
Two moons were still up, so there was enough light to see by as the men left their hotel. They had obtained a map and flashlights for later from the concierge, but before they started on their way, Kydd and Zander paused for a moment to look out over the lake. Most of the city’s homes were built on terraces carved out of a large hill, but at least a thousand were perched on pilings and sat directly above the water. Those structures, along with some of the businesses that served them, were connected by a maze of elevated bridges, walkways, and in some cases simple planks. That meant visitors had to be very careful not to get lost or fall into the cold waters below.
It was a possibility that Kydd kept firmly in mind as he and Zander followed the map down to the waterfront, out onto a pedestrian-only causeway, and into the Lakehome neighborhood. Charming homes stood side by side with shops as well as utilitarian buildings that served the city’s extremely important fishing industry.
And farther out, where unobstructed views of the water were available, restaurant row was waiting to be explored. That’s where the young men were headed, to an eatery that was supposed to be one of the best. In the meantime there were cute girls to look at, other soldiers to systematically ignore, and storefronts that sold things other than porno, tattoos, and trashy clothing. All of which was a change for Zander, who had been raised in a slum and was very conscious of his lower-class origins.
Kydd was aware that many of his childhood friends would have seen someone like Zander as “low class,” but after months spent in the military, he no longer cared about such distinctions. Zander was a member of Heaven’s Devils—and that was the only pedigree he had any interest in.
Still, Zander felt the first stirrings of doubt as they arrived in front of the restaurant called Waves, and made for the front door. “I don’t know, Ryk,” he said doubtfully, as a well-dressed couple entered in front of them. “Are you sure about this? What if I use the wrong fork or something?”
“Just do what I do,” Kydd replied confidently. “But even if you make a mistake, who the hell cares? You’re a Heaven’s Devil! That’s an accomplishment that none of the people in this restaurant can match.”
Kydd’s comments made Zander feel better, and he held his head high and shoulders back as they were shown into the dining room. It featured dozens of linen-covered tables, all of which looked out onto a marvelous view. Thousands of jewel fish rose to the surface each evening, and people never tired of looking at the fabulous wash of color generated by their red, green, and blue-tipped feelers.
The most prized seats were directly in front of an enormous window that looked out onto the lake. But such tables were reserved for VIPs, or those willing to slip the maitre d’ some cash. So Kydd and Zander were shown to a small two-person table on the second tier next to the south wall. But the view was still incredible, and as Zander sat down, he knew he’d been correct to accompany Kydd. Because Zander had been to plenty of dives, but here was something completely different, and very special.
Neither one of them was familiar with the local cuisine, so they ordered “Wave Samplers” on the theory that they were sure to like at least part of what the restaurant had to offer. And, based on the deep-fried kitza appetizers that were forthcoming ten minutes later, they were in for a treat.
So there they were, enjoying mugs of locally brewed beer and delicious civilian food, when two men entered and were shown to the best table in the restaurant. A spot centered on the huge window and lit from above. Kydd’s eyes were focused on the view beyond, so Zander was the one to take notice of the newcomers. “Holy crap, Ryk … Colonel Vanderspool just walked in!”
Kydd shifted his gaze, saw Vanderspool, and was about to say something snarky when the other man’s face came into view. That was when Kydd’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. It couldn’t be! Yet there he was, sitting no more than twenty-five feet away! Kydd immediately dropped his gaze down, propped an elbow on the tabletop, and lifted a hand to his forehead.
Zander saw Kydd’s reaction and looked concerned. “Ryk? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I know the second man,” Kydd said tightly, “although I’m surprised to see him here.”
“Yeah?” Zander said. “Who is he?”
“His name is Errol Bennet,” Kydd replied, “and he’s my father.”
The second course arrived, but the two soldiers didn’t notice. Zander looked at the man in question and back again. “No way! That’s terrific! Are you going to go over and say hello?”
“No,” Kydd replied flatly. “Part of me wants to… . I admit that. But another part wants to know the answer to a very important question.”
Zander’s eyebrows rose. “Which is …?”
“Why is my father on Turaxis II—having dinner with Colonel Vanderspool, who is a self-aggrandizing asshole, and almost certainly a thief?”
Zander shrugged philosophically. “Um, remember Fort Howe? And the load of jammers? We’re still spending the money.”
Kydd knew Zander was correct. It was hypocritical to accuse Vanderspool, and by implication his father, of crimes he had committed. But even so, he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and cross what seemed like a vast chasm. He’d been living a lie for months now, but somewhere in the middle of it all, that lie had become reality. And there was Vanderspool to consider… . What would happen if Kydd walked up to them right then and there? It would be catastrophic! The truth regarding his identity would come out—and his father would insist that he leave the military.
Kydd felt a vague plan start to form in his mind. A childish scheme, really, that involved following his father back to wherever it was that he was staying, and a possible reunion without Vanderspool being present. He warned his dinner companion, and gave the other man a chance to bow out, but Zander shook his head. “Are you kidding? No way … I’ll watch your six.”
The two managed to enjoy the rest of their dinner, but Kydd never took his eyes off the pair.
Having already paid the rather extravagant bill, Kydd was ready when the two men rose from their table, paused to say something to the formally attired maître d’, and left. It was easy to follow them out of the restaurant and down a darkened walkway.
But rather than head for the pedestrian causeway and the shoreline beyond, Vanderspool and Bennet turned in the opposite direction. Kydd was surprised to see that neither one of the men was accompanied by bodyguards, but supposed that was indicative of where they were, and the nature of their relationship.
Despite being off the beaten path, there was still a bit of foot traffic. So Kydd and Zander were able to remain inconspicuous as they followed the two men to a low-slung building that had the name F ISHC O painted on the side of it in big black letters. A boatyard was located right next door. There was the glow of what might have been floodlights from the water side of the structure, and based on the intermittent sound of power tools, it appeared that work was going to continue well into the night.
As the door to the FishCo building opened to let the men enter, a shaft of light shot out onto the walkway. Kydd caught sight of two Bennet family retainers and a couple of men who might have been resocialized marines dressed in civilian clothes.
What could that mean? Kydd wondered as he and Zander paused at the end of the boardwalk and pretended to look at the view. A throaty rumble was heard and a dimly lit wave skimmer appeared out of the darkness. It slowed as it passed under them, and Kydd could hear waves slapping against the pilings as the engine died.
Were more people arriving to meet with Vanderspool and his father? Or was that simply a fishing boat? Kydd had no way to know but was very curious. “Wait here,” he said, as he turned to Zander. “I’m going to find out what’s going on in there.”
“Forget it,” Zander responded. “I’m coming with you! Remember Firebase Zulu? I had you
r back then and I’ve got it now.”
Kydd slapped the other man on his shoulder and smiled. “You’re just as crazy as Harnack. You know that?”
Zander grinned. He was forced to speak loudly to be heard over the chatter of a power wrench. “Look who’s talking! How are we going to get in?”
“Over there,” Kydd replied. “See the outside stairs that lead up to the second floor? Maybe the door’s unlocked.”
That seemed unlikely, but Zander didn’t have a better idea, and seconds later he was a few steps behind the sniper, tiptoeing up the wooden stairs to a landing and a weather-beaten door. It was, as Zander had expected it would be, firmly locked. “Damn!” Kydd whispered. “We’re fekked.”
“I have an idea,” Zander replied. “Boost me up… . Maybe there’s a way down from the roof.”
Kydd looked up, judged that the roof was flat enough to stand on, and nodded. “Good idea … be careful, though. I know my father’s people will be armed, and chances are Vanderspool’s bodyguards are, too.”
Zander nodded, put his right foot into the cradle that Kydd provided, and was ready when the larger man heaved him upward. There was a muted thump as Zander threw his forearms out onto the roof. Then, having brought a leg up and over, he disappeared from sight.
Three long minutes passed, and Kydd felt very exposed on the open stairway, as Zander did whatever he was doing. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the other Devil was back, his head projecting out over the edge of the roof. “Ryk … there’s a set of skylights. Half of them are propped open. I could hear them talking. Here … grab my belt.”
The leather strap wasn’t very long but Kydd was in good shape, and once he had hold of the belt, was able to pull himself up to the point where he could transfer his grip to the roof. Then, with help from Zander, Kydd scrambled onto the slanted surface. Thanks to a splash of light from the boatyard next door, he could see well enough.
Zander held a finger to his lips, motioned Kydd forward, and led him across the heat-absorbing roof to a row of partially opened skylights. Somebody was hammering on metal in the boatyard so there was very little chance of being heard.
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