Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  “It’s just not like you, Jim—to jump into something without thinking it through,” Karol continued. “You can’t blame us for being shocked—”

  “I knew I couldn’t leave before, that’s why,” Jim blurted, “not the way things are, so I never said anything! But now, with the bonus and all, there’s a way to make things work!” He realized he was yelling, so he took a deep breath and continued calmly. “Plus, as much as I love the farm, it would be great to visit some other planets. Then, after a tour, I could come back and settle down.”

  As Jim said everything out loud for the first time, he started to feel truly excited at the prospect of joining the Marine Corps, and at the same time, frustrated by his parents’ lack of support. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen it coming. He was their only child, after all, their little boy, and he’d never spent more than a weekend out of their sight.

  An ominous silence once again filled the room. Jim looked back and forth at his parents. Karol was looking at her plate and shaking her head, turning the remnants of her stew over with her spoon. Trace was staring down at his folded hands, seemingly deep in thought. Not sure whether to excuse himself or wait for someone to speak, Jim passed the next few minutes by gingerly patting his swollen eye with a freeze-pak.

  Eventually, Trace cleared his throat. “I’ll say this. If Jim wants to get off planet and take a look around, this would be a good opportunity to do it.” He exchanged glances with Karol before leaning back in his chair.

  She doesn’t look happy, Jim thought.

  “You’re going to have to give your mother and me some time to think about this, okay, Jim?”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Jim replied, wondering whether he was doing the right thing, or if this was all a big mistake. He got up and cleared the table, then quietly left the room. His father, for the first time in Jim’s memory, offered no words of guidance and Jim felt utterly alone.

  The better part of three days passed with arguments back and forth, but on the third night there was a knock on Jim’s bedroom door. He turned away from his computer. “Yeah?”

  “Come on, your mom and I want to talk to you,” Trace called out. He smiled warmly as Jim opened the door, and the two made their way down the hall.

  As he sat back down at the table, Jim could sense that his mother had been crying. It was the worst feeling in the universe, and he suddenly wanted to take it all back. Every last bit of it. But then his father began to speak.

  “Jim, your mother and I have never put pressure on you to follow in our footsteps, but up until now, you’ve had no say in the matter. We needed you here, so we just figured you’d stay, and that’s unfair to you.”

  Karol, a sad smile on her face, reached over and clutched her son’s hand in both of hers. Jim’s heart was racing. Were they actually going to let him go? He looked back at his dad, whose expression had softened.

  “If you want to enlist, Son,” Trace continued, “that’s your choice. Because in this life, you are who you choose to be. And it doesn’t surprise us one bit that our son wants to be a hero.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Recent changes in the Confederate military hierarchy’s structure have left several wings of the armed forces struggling to adapt. Charged with keeping lawlessness in check among the troops, the Internal Security Division has reported a lack of military police to deal with the growing recruit population. Analysts worry that these gaps in security may open vulnerable sections of the military to criminal abuse.”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN March 2488

  THE PLANET RAYDIN III, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

  The sky was gray, huge thunderheads were building in the southwest, and it was a hot, humid day in the town of Prosser’s Well. Tychus Findlay figured it would rain later, which was fine by him, since all of the dust made it hard to keep things clean. Like the company’s weapons, for example.

  There was a sudden roar, and windows rattled as a formation of Avengers passed overhead. Such events were so common, no one bothered to look up.

  Lots of people were in town, still celebrating the fact that the Kel-Morian forces had been driven out of the area three days earlier, and were retreating toward the east. A good deal of the northern part of the settlement had been destroyed during the fighting, but the rest was relatively untouched, including the central business district.

  There were dozens of variations, but all of the city’s buildings had a boxy look because their components had been produced by the same on-site factory that had been dropped into position when the community was founded. A variety of domes, arched gateways, and walled courtyards had been added over the years and painted different colors. That gave Prosser’s Well some additional character.

  The town was laid out on a colonial grid so that it was easy for strangers to find their way around. A convenience that Tychus had reason to appreciate as he fell in behind a trio of half-drunk marines and followed them down the main drag toward the warehouse district at the other end of town.

  The problem with being a noncommissioned officer in the Confederacy’s Marine Corps was that it took so much time away from stealing things. There were exceptions, of course, his present errand being one of them. Because a civilian would never have been aware of the opportunity he had in mind. So maybe being a staff sergeant had its advantages after all.

  Take the warehouse full of captured Kel-Morian weapons, armor, and other gear, for example. Only someone like him, who was positioned to monitor all of the communications that flowed past his CO, would be in a position to profit from the situation. The key was to act quickly, cut a deal with the supply sergeant in charge of the storage facility, and remove a large quantity of the captured gear before an official inventory could be carried out. Because, insofar as the Marine Corps mentality was concerned, items that aren’t on a list don’t exist! And if something doesn’t exist, it can’t be stolen.

  The thought brought a grim smile to Tychus’s square-jawed face as he ducked under a sign and paused to gaze at a window display filled with women’s shoes. Or, more accurately, at the general area, because his peripheral vision was quite good, and if someone was following him, he wanted to know.

  Not having spotted any MPs or suspicious civilians, Tychus turned a corner and followed an alley to the next street over. A hard left carried him into the warehouse district, and from there it was a three-minute walk to a low, metal-sided warehouse that would have been completely unremarkable had there not been sentries posted outside.

  Tychus made his way over to the nearest guard. The fresh-faced youth immediately puffed out his chest to compensate for his significantly smaller stature. That reaction was not new to Tychus; at over six-and-a-half feet tall, he was a giant compared to most, and his deliberate, hulking demeanor intimidated just about everyone he encountered. His brown hair was cropped into a flattop, and well-worn creases connected his chiseled features and set off a strong brow. Due to the relatively high concentration of methane gas in the planet’s atmosphere, everyone on Raydin III had to wear nose plugs, a transparent air hose, and an auxiliary oxygen canister. The big noncom was no exception. In addition, he wore basic cammies and was armed with a pistol and a gauss rifle.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

  “If you say so,” Tychus growled. The sound of his voice was like a gravel crusher in low gear. “I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Sims… . Is he around?”

  The private nodded earnestly. “He’s inside, but I gotta see some ID first, Sarge.”

  Tychus grunted, waited for the sentry to pass a scanner in front of his eyes, and was already making his way toward the front door when the green indicator light came on. That was when the private spoke into his lapel mic, heard a one-word reply, and turned his back to the warehouse. For the first time in at least a minute, the private exhaled.

  Having entered the dimly lit warehouse, Tychus spotted a distant light and made his way toward it. The air was cool and slightly musty. Piles of Kel-Morian cargo modules were
stacked against the walls—while others stood like islands in the middle of the clean-swept floor. Now that Tychus was closer he could see the desk that sat directly below the light. A gunnery sergeant was seated behind the beat-up piece of furniture with his feet up. Had Tychus been an officer, this would have been a dangerous thing to do, so it was obvious that Sims was expecting his visitor and wasn’t the least bit surprised when the other noncom came to a stop.

  Sims had one pay grade on Tychus, but there are pay grades, and then there are pay grades. And, as every marine knows, the jump from staff sergeant to gunnery sergeant involves a lot of additional responsibility, authority, and respect. That, combined with the fact that Sims “owned” the warehouse, put him in the driver’s seat.

  The hair on Sims’s head amounted to little more than brown stubble and, due to the way his ears stuck out, some of the men referred to him as “jughead.” Never to his face however, which was dominated by coal chip eyes and an extra chin. Rather than use the plugs most people wore, Sims favored a minimal mask that covered his nose. It was held in place by an elastic band. Tychus nodded. “Gunny Sims? My name is Findlay… . You got a minute?”

  Sims shrugged. “Sure, Sergeant… . Take a load off. What’s on your mind?”

  Tychus let the rifle slip off his shoulder, placed the weapon within easy reach, and sat down. The chair creaked and seemed to disappear beneath him. “We have a mutual friend,” Tychus began cautiously. “Somebody who believes in the importance of free market capitalism.”

  “And who might that be?” Sims inquired levelly.

  “The individual I’m referring to is Master Sergeant Calvin.”

  Sims nodded. “I know Calvin… . We were corporals together. He’s a good man. What’s he up to these days?”

  “He’s in charge of the 2nd Battalion’s transportation company.”

  “Interesting,” Sims said. “So, like I said earlier, what’s on your mind?”

  This was the point of no return. Because if Tychus told Sims what he had in mind, and the gunny turned him in, his next meal would be served in a military work camp up in the mountains. But if he didn’t take that chance, no money could be made. So Tychus took the leap, as he’d done so many times before. “You’ve got a lot of stuff sitting around here, Gunny… . I’d like to take some of it off your hands.”

  Sims brought his feet down off the desk, pulled a drawer open, and stuck a hand inside. Tychus felt his stomach muscles tighten knowing that the other noncom could be reaching for a gun. But what Sims brought out was a box of cigars, which he flipped open. “Care for a smoke?”

  Tychus produced a wolfish grin. “As a matter of fact I would, Gunny … thank you very much.”

  The next minute or so was spent cutting ends off and torching both cigars with the gold lighter that Tychus had stolen from a dead lieutenant. Finally, when both men were satisfied with the way their stogies were drawing, it was time to talk business. “Don’t tell me,” Sims said, “let me guess. Calvin is going to provide the transportation.”

  “That’s the plan,” Tychus confirmed. “With the Kel-Morians on the run, and our people in hot pursuit, the brass have been forced to push two convoys a day out of Port Haaby. But once they deliver, most of the trucks come back empty. And that’s a waste of taxpayers’ money, wouldn’t you agree? Not to mention vespene gas.”

  Sims blew a column of smoke up toward the lamp and chuckled. “So when do we get paid? And with what?”

  “We get paid on delivery,” Tychus answered. “We’re talking silium crystals. They’re small, lightweight, and you can sell them anywhere.”

  “I like it,” Sims said approvingly, “or I will, assuming that the split makes sense.”

  Tychus knew that was coming, knew that the other man held the upper hand, and knew he knew. So he was negotiating from a position of weakness. “Each of us will take a third of the proceeds,” Tychus said, “minus three percent each to pay the drivers and guards.”

  Sims shook his head. “Nice try, Sergeant… . Calvin deserves a third, given all he’s bringing to the deal, and so do I. But what makes you so valuable? Your good looks?”

  “My looks are an incredible asset,” Tychus responded dryly, “but so are my connections. I’m the one who knows the customer and that’s why I get thirty percent.”

  Sims was silent for a moment, as smoke from their cigars merged to join a common cloud. Finally, based on some personal calculus, he nodded. “Okay, Sergeant … you’ve got a deal. But it’s important to move fast. A logistics team is scheduled to arrive in three days. They’re going to count, label, and bar-code every item in this warehouse. So tell Calvin to get his ass in gear.”

  “I will,” Tychus promised, as he got up to leave.

  “Good,” Sims said gruffly, and offered the box. “Grab a handful.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Tychus replied, as he settled the rifle sling over his shoulder. Then opening an enormous paw, he brought it down on the neatly ranked cigars, and made a fist. Once the hand was withdrawn, Sims realized that the box was nearly empty! He was about to object, but Tychus was a good six feet away by that time and headed for the door. A deal had been made.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I solemnly affirm my duty to support and defend the planets of the Terran Confederacy against all enemies, interstellar and domestic. I further affirm that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and that I will strive against any and all threats to the continued progress of mankind in this sector.”

  Confederate Soldiers’ Oath

  THE PLANET SHILOH, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

  Jim Raynor’s swearing-in ceremony took place in the town of Centerville, where everyone knew the Raynors. So after Trace parked the truck, and the family made their way toward Main Street, all sorts of people came up to shake Jim’s hand and exchange a few words with his parents. Trace’s hand never left Jim’s shoulder. Jim was beaming with pride.

  About fifty people showed up to witness the moment, a crowd that grew larger when a government-chartered bus pulled up in front of the colonial courthouse and sighed wearily as it came to a stop. Fifteen recruits got off. And even though most had joined earlier that morning, they swaggered around the town square as if they were combat veterans, much to the amusement of some real veterans who were sitting on a bench.

  In spite of all the well wishers, there was something a little bit sad about the dusty courtroom, the tired-looking bunting that had been draped across the front of Judge Guthrie’s bench, and the limp flag that drooped from a pole. Guthrie did his best, though, administering the oath as if it had been handed down from on high, while pausing at regular intervals so Raynor, Tom Omer, and the other recruits could repeat the words after him.

  Rather than the sense of excitement he thought he’d feel as he prepared to leave his home planet for the first time, Raynor felt a vague sense of foreboding instead, but put the emotion down to the fear associated with going off to marine boot camp. A hellish place by all accounts, where brutal drill instructors ruled, and recruits were routinely abused. But all for a good purpose, or so Gunnery Sergeant Farley had assured him, while processing his application because “boot camp produces marines! And we’re the best of the best.”

  There were handshakes all around, and lots of hugs, as Raynor worked his way out of the courtroom and onto the front steps. Then it was time to say one last good-bye to his parents. Much to Jim’s embarrassment, his mother had packed a lunch for him, and tears were rolling down her cheeks as she kissed him. “Don’t forget to write… . We’re going to miss you so much.”

  Trace Raynor didn’t say a word, but it was all there in his eyes and the strength of his grip. Jim’s heart swelled with emotion, but he gritted his teeth and managed a weak smile. This is it, Jim thought, and a moment later was left to the mercies of a noncom named Corporal Timson who, if he had a first name, never chose to share it.

  Timson was dressed in a reasonably clean uniform that was at least one size to
o small for him. Raynor noticed that there were four five-year pins on his left sleeve, which indicated that he’d been in the Corps for more than twenty years. So, either he’d been broken from a more lofty rank, or had been unable to rise above the rank of corporal. Neither of which spoke very well of his performance.

  Whatever the case, Timson appeared worn out and eager to leave. “All right,” he announced to those who had been sworn in earlier, “it’s time to get back on the bus. We haven’t got all day, you know.”

  Raynor gave a final wave to his parents and boarded the bus, carrying a small satchel and his lunch. There was a center aisle with seats on both sides, and a storage rack above.

  Some of his fellow recruits were already aboard, shooting the breeze with each other or fiddling with their fones. The back of the bus appeared to be empty, so Raynor headed there and sat on the bench-style seat that ran from side to side. He looked around for Omer.

  Moments later a boisterous group of young men entered the cabin and paused to give one of the girls some unwanted attention before shuffling toward the back. Their leader, a gangly red-haired youth, led the way. Fekk! Raynor’s stomach dropped when he recognized Harnack, and one of his father’s well-worn phrases came rushing back to him. “Trouble is like a boomerang—the harder you throw it, the faster it’ll come back at you.” Why did his old man always have to be right?

  Whether he knew it or not, Harnack had become the butt of a lot of jokes around town the last couple weeks, thanks to Raynor and his iron fists. But now, as Raynor pretended to look casually out the window, he knew the bastard was looking for trouble, and could feel it coming straight for him. When he heard Harnack’s boots stop short midway through the aisle, Raynor knew he’d been spotted.