Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  Raynor neared the edge and turned the robo-harvester back in the other direction. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by what looked like a dust devil off to the north. The windscreen was dirty so he stuck his head out of the cab in order to see more clearly, a feat made even more difficult because his left eye was swollen shut and hurt like hell. Then Jim realized that what he was looking at wasn’t a dust devil, but a machine of some sort, coming his way. What the hell … ? Was it the neighbors? No, their crop was in, so there was no reason to roll their robo-harvester.

  Raynor pulled his head back in, but kept an eye on the pillar of dust, as he guided the harvester toward the river. Then, once he was about halfway across the length of the field, he took a second look. What he saw surprised and worried him. The oncoming machine was a Confederate goliath.

  Like every other kid on Shiloh, Jim had seen vids of the huge twelve-foot-tall walkers standing guard outside the Council headquarters on Tarsonis, marching through the streets in parades, and trudging through storms of lethal fire as their arm cannons dealt death to the Confederacy’s enemies.

  But Raynor had never seen a goliath marching across the countryside before and felt a sudden stab of fear. Property taxes had been rising steeply for the last few years—and some farmers had been thrown off their land. Was that why the machine had been sent? To take possession of the farm? Maybe, but Jim couldn’t see any sign of the ground troops that would normally accompany a walker. What, then?

  He took the mic off its clip, and was about to alert his father to the goliath’s presence, when Trace Raynor’s voice came over the cab’s speaker. “I can see it, Jim… . I’m on my way.”

  Raynor looked back over his right shoulder, saw the column of dust his father’s beat-up truck was throwing up, and felt a sense of relief. Because even though he was good at schoolwork and could run every piece of equipment on the farm, there were a whole lot of things he didn’t know how to do. And dealing with the government was one of them.

  But he was curious, so as the brightly painted goliath splashed through the river and lurched up onto the field, Raynor brought the robo-harvester to a halt and switched the engine off to save fuel. He could hear the tinny sound of the Confederacy’s anthem by then as the walker grew larger, and flags flew from dual antennas.

  As his father arrived, the teenager took a swig of tepid water from the bottle on the floor before he exited the cab. The wheat crop was so sparse that his boots produced puffs of dust when his feet hit the ground. By that time the goliath had come to a halt, and stood not fifty feet away. As Jim entered the machine’s elongated shadow, he was aware of the subtle vibration that the machine transmitted through the soles of his heavy work boots. There was something else, too, an acrid odor that he recognized as the smell of ozone, which hung heavy in the air.

  The walker had a blocky cockpit where the pilot was seated, mounts for two sets of missile launchers, and articulated arms that were equipped with shovel-hands instead of the autocannons Jim had seen in the vids. But the armored body and sturdy legs were the way he remembered them.

  With the exception of the machine’s cockpit, which was painted dark blue, the rest of the goliath was red. A unit number was visible on both sides of the cockpit, and four dropship-shaped silhouettes had been painted onto the area just below the front canopy, along with that of a Hellhound—the Kel-Morian equivalent of the Confederacy’s Avenger fighter craft. The mech was relatively clean except for a thin patina of dust, and the flags that had been flying so proudly a few minutes before hung motionless as if drained of spirit.

  Trace Raynor’s truck rattled as the engine shut down, the door opened, and he jumped out. He had a shock of gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard on a face so weathered it resembled a topographical map, and a body without an ounce of fat on it. His brown eyes were bright with anger as he came over to stand next to his son. “First the bastards raise our taxes so high we can barely pay them—and now they send a machine to trample our crops! They might as well shoot us and put us out of our misery.”

  Jim understood his father’s resentment, but wondered about the wisdom of saying such things out loud, especially if the goliath was equipped with external audio pickups. But the thought was preempted as servos whined, and the canopy above what was painted to look like a snarling mouth opened to reveal the cockpit within. A uniformed marine rose to wave at them. “Good morning, folks!” his much-amplified voice said, booming through twin speakers. “My name is Farley … Gunnery Sergeant Farley… . I’ll be down in a sec.”

  Farley gave a voice command. One of the goliath’s massive shovel-hands rose up to meet him, he stepped onto it, and was gently lowered to the ground. The moment he stepped off, servos whined as the walker assumed a position akin to parade rest. “You must be Trace Raynor,” the marine said, as he came forward to shake hands with the farmer. “And, unless I miss my guess, this is your son, Jim, proud member of the class of 2488. Good going, young man.”

  “Thanks.” As Jim shook hands with the marine, he was impressed by Farley’s high-wattage personality and the strength of his grip. There was something odd about the way he looked, though—the marine appeared to be too young for his middle-aged persona, and Jim noticed there was something strange about the way his jaw moved as he spoke. He had heard stories about how the Confederacy’s doctors could “grow” new faces for people. So maybe the marine had suffered some terrible wounds and been given a more youthful look. There was no way to be certain, but Jim thought it was totally cool.

  The marine’s whites were barely wrinkled, which was no small trick, given how cramped the goliath’s cockpit must have been. A double row of medals hung on the left side of his chest, a gleaming belt encircled his waist, and his shoes were mirror-bright. All of which made quite a contrast to Trace and Jim Raynor, both of whom looked slovenly by comparison.

  Recruiters were a common sight on planets like Shiloh, although they had never made the rounds in a goliath before, which said something about the wars. It had been going on for several years by that time, and even though the Confederacy’s spokespeople claimed that everything was going well, recruiting goals were increasing just as fast as taxes were. Which meant that when kids like Tom Omer and Jim Raynor graduated from upper school, they were targeted.

  Realizing that he wasn’t in immediate danger of being thrown off his land—not yet, anyway—Trace Raynor allowed himself to relax a bit. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant,” he said. “Although I’d sure appreciate it if you could avoid trampling my wheat on your way out.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Farley replied understandingly. “I’ll follow the river over to the road when I leave.”

  “Thank you,” Trace Raynor said evenly.

  “No problem,” Farley said, as his eyes swiveled toward the teenager. “That’s quite a shiner, son. How does the other guy look?”

  Jim had been hoping that his shades would be sufficient to hide the black eye, but it seemed that Farley could see the margins of it. He forced a grin. “I’m pretty sure he looks better than I do.”

  Trace had taught his son to be modest, but he wasn’t the type to let someone’s honor be impugned. “There was a dust-up in the fuel line. Some kid cut in line and Jim put him on the pavement,” he said proudly.

  Farley nodded. “Good for you, boy. It’s important to stand up for yourself. So you’re done with school… . Have you made any plans regarding what you’re going to do next?”

  “No,” Jim answered honestly, staring into eyes that looked like two gun barrels. “Just work for my dad, I guess,” he said with a shrug. The words came out with such a glum tone, he immediately felt guilty. He glanced up at his father and met his knowing gaze. Jim suspected that Trace knew he wasn’t entirely happy with the future that awaited him.

  Farley nodded agreeably. “That makes sense… . And I’m sure your parents appreciate it. Of course there are other ways to lend a hand. Take the current enlistment bonus for example. The government is paying a
generous signing bonus to each person who joins up! That kind of lump sum would go a long way toward taking care of the bills.”

  A generous bonus? That got Jim’s attention. A big chunk of money could fix everything for his parents, for the farm, maybe even his future. Was that why Tom had enlisted? After all, the Omers were even worse off than his folks.

  He was about to ask the sergeant just how generous this lump sum would be, when his father frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Keep your mouth shut.

  If Farley was aware of the interchange, he gave no sign of it as he turned to gesture at the goliath. “Then there’s training to think about,” he said. “You could learn to pilot a goliath, fly an Avenger, or drive a siege tank. Of course I’m a ground pounder myself—so I prefer the infantry. And that means wearing one of the new powered combat suits. There ain’t nothin’ like it, son… . Once you strap one of those bad boys on, you’ll be ready to kick ass and scan names! Come on, step onto that shovel-hand, and I’ll give you a peek at the cockpit.”

  It wasn’t until Jim and the marine were off the ground and halfway up that he realized how skillfully his dad had been cut out of the conversation.

  Now, some twelve feet off the ground, Jim Raynor was peering into the goliath’s well-padded cockpit. “See that cradle?” Farley inquired as he pointed downward. “Once you strap in, all you have to do is move the way you want the machine to move. Input from the sensors feeds into the onboard computer, which passes instructions along to the machine, mimicking what you did. It takes some practice, of course, and it’s more difficult when people are shooting at you, but so what? You can shoot back!

  “This baby is retired now,” Farley continued, “but the pilots who rode her scored plenty of verified kills. And I don’t just mean infantry. We’re talking mechs, tanks, vultures, and Hellhounds… . So this honey deserves some easy livin’.”

  As Jim leaned over the cockpit he saw a curved control panel, the worn cradle beyond, and could smell the combined odors of sweat, oil, and stale cigar smoke. All of which summoned up visions of what it would be like to strap in and stride across a cratered battlefield, as brave comrades marched on either side of him.

  So cool … Jim thought. But Mom and Dad would never let me go. The teenager nodded politely, and let Farley do all the talking as the goliath placed them back on the ground. The visit came to an end shortly after that, and it wasn’t long before Farley was back in his cockpit, marching his machine down into the river. He delivered his parting comment over the loudspeaker. “Remember the Marine Corps motto, son… . ‘For family, friends, and the Confederacy.’ People are counting on you.”

  Spray flew away from the goliath’s heavy feet, and the walker headed off toward the road. That was when Trace Raynor summoned a wad of spit, aimed it at a rock, and uttered a one-word editorial: “Bastards.”

  Without another word the farmer entered his truck, fired it up, and took off. Seconds later he was on the dirt road that ran up toward the dome. The sun was high in the sky, there was work to do, and valuable time had been lost.

  Jim watched the goliath until it vanished around the bend. He suddenly had a lot on his mind.

  The sun was little more than a red smear on the western horizon by the time Jim Raynor parked the robo-harvester, walked across a dusty parking lot to the family’s home, and made his way down the ramp. Like most of the homes on Shiloh, eighty percent of the house was underground, where it was relatively immune to both summer heat and snowy winters. The dome’s top floor was protected by a semi-transparent eyelid-like membrane that could absorb sunlight during the day, send if off to be stored in the farm’s power cells, and then open up at night. Which was when Jim liked to lie back in a lounge chair and stare up at the stars.

  But that was for later. First it was time to take a sonic shower, throw on some clean clothes, and make his way into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Karol Raynor’s ebony hair was streaked with gray, and wrinkles had started to appear around her green eyes, but she was still a beautiful woman. And smart too—she had been selected to attend the agricultural school in Smithson on a scholarship and was, as Trace liked to put it, “the brains of the family.”

  Karol kept up with all of the most recent developments in farming technology and constantly looked for ways to stretch the family’s finances, including negotiating with creditors, a task Trace lacked the temperament for. She was a first-class cook, and thanks to her carefully sheltered vegetable garden, plus the fairly steady supply of meat provided by the local ranchers, the Raynors always had something to eat. Something Jim was especially good at. “Hi, Mom,” the teenager said, as he entered the kitchen and paused to kiss his mother’s cheek. “What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

  Karol turned, opened her mouth to reply, and paused. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Nothin’ much,” Jim replied evasively. “I got into a scuffle, that’s all.”

  “A scuffle, huh?” Karol said cynically. “You know how I feel about fighting. We’ll discuss it at dinner. And put some ice on that thing.”

  Once the family was seated around the kitchen table and everybody had been served, Jim had to tell his mother about the fight with the Harnack boy, and listen to a lecture about the importance of settling disputes with words rather than fists.

  “Your mother’s right, Jim,” Trace put in. “Fighting’s not the answer. But it’s important to stand up for yourself, especially when it comes to bullies. The key is knowing when to get involved and when to walk away, because you never know what kind of mess you’re getting into until you’re up to your neck in it.”

  “I hear you, Dad,” Jim said, “And I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned to Karol and manufactured a smile. “So, Mom, how was your day?”

  Jim knew it was obvious that he was making a blatant attempt to change the subject, but felt relieved when his mother seemed pleased to end the discussion. She launched into what amounted to a local news report. Apparently, a new strain of drought-resistant triticale-wheat was about to become available, the Laughlins weren’t getting a divorce after all, and the sonic clothes cleaner was acting up again.

  Eventually the conversation came around to the recruiter and his goliath. Jim and Trace split the story between them. Once it was over, Karol shook her head. “Gosh, they’re really getting aggressive, aren’t they? They’re saying everything’s going fine out there, and the minute Jim’s eligible to enlist they send a recruiter to our doorstep. What about your friends? Is anyone else getting targeted like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Jim replied honestly. “But Tom Omer’s shipping out right after graduation.”

  “I hope he knows what he’s getting himself into,” Trace said. “The military is not something to take lightly.”

  “No, he’s really serious. And … I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it lately, too, what it would be like to join up. I mean, I’ve never been off planet, and the signing bonus might be enough to pay our taxes down. Who knows? Maybe you could fix up the farm, sell out, and move to Smithson. Then, when I get out of the Marine Corps, I could go to that university on Korhal like Mom wants me to.”

  His enthusiastic speech was greeted with utter silence. He didn’t know what to expect; he’d been rehearsing it in his head ever since Farley’s mention of the signing bonus, but that didn’t make the notion any less shocking to his parents.

  “No way,” Trace finally put in. “The taxes are our problem, not yours… . Besides, the wars with the Kel-Morians is none of our business. Let the people who care about it fight it—”

  “Trace, you know the wars are our business, whether you like it or not,” Karol interrupted. “But I agree with your father, Jim, there’s no reason you should be saddled with our debts. Plus, I don’t recall you mentioning the military before. That corporal must have left quite an impression.”

  “He’s a gunnery sergeant, Mom,” Jim said patiently, as he finished his stew. “And I h
ave been thinking about it,” he said. “Tom got me interested in the marines a long time ago, but …” Jim looked at his worried parents and felt a little guilty. Truth was, his mom was right: He had never actually entertained the thought of enlisting until that afternoon. When the recruiter said it could help his family, it was all he needed to hear; if he didn’t help them, who would?

  “Listen, I want to fight those scumbags, okay, because things are going to get worse before they get better, right, Dad? I mean, what if the Kel-Morians win? Then everybody would have to join an occupational guild … and do whatever the people in charge of the guilds say.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Karol said. “The people who lead the guilds are elected—but once in office they’re just about impossible to get out. And the guilds want war, because if they can control all of the scarce resources they can control everything.”

  “That’s one of the reasons we’re paying higher taxes and dealing with shortages,” Trace added. “They’re hoarding strategic materials and trying to force us to accept their corrupt political system.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jim replied earnestly. “If I were to join up, I could do something about the long fuel lines and food shortages. I could help a lot of people, including you guys.”

  Karol frowned. “This is kind of sudden, isn’t it? I don’t understand where all of this is coming from. You’ve never mentioned any of these feelings before.”

  “Your mother’s right, Jim,” Trace echoed. “I don’t think you realize what you’re up against here. That guy today, he’s a recruiter! It’s his job to make it seem adventurous and exciting, but war is war, no matter how you spin it. You have a fifteen-minute conversation with some propaganda spouter and suddenly you’re ready to sign your life away.”