Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  “Fall in!” one of the noncoms ordered gruffly. “Make two formations of six ranks each with the tallest idiots in the back. Marines over here—swabbies over there.”

  “I think they’ve done this before,” Harnack observed as the three of them fell in.

  More orders were given and the first two ranks of swabbies were magically transformed into a column of twos. Once the fleet personnel were in motion, the marines followed.

  “I have to take a piss,” Raynor muttered.

  “Aim for Kydd,” Harnack responded, loud enough for the sniper to hear. “He’s on my nerves today.”

  Kydd glanced back and grinned. “You’re a mean sonofabitch, you know that?”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve seen Raynor shoot—you know he can’t aim worth shit.”

  “Oh, wow. You are so going down.” Raynor stealthily planted a foot in Harnack’s path. After a quick stumble, Harnack regained his footing and the three recruits hid their smirks as the MPs led them out onto the street.

  They might have been subjected to a long humiliating shuffle through the center of town, had it not been for a sergeant wearing a beer-stained uniform and sporting a black eye. He began to call cadence, the marines fell inot step, and the swabbies did likewise. As heads came up, shoulders went back, and the age-old command of “Your left, right, left,” echoed between the surrounding buildings as the troops marched through town.

  Suddenly Raynor felt better. It was a bright, sunny morning, he could see distant contrails clawing the sky, and he was glad to be where he was—even if his head hurt each time he brought his left heel down hard. Somebody began to sing a marching ditty. More voices joined in, and the trip back to base was transformed from a retreat to a triumphant parade. The town of Braddock had been sacked and conquered.

  Once Raynor, Harnack, Kydd, and the rest of their company were back on base, they were ordered to report to their quarters, where Gunnery Sergeant Red Murphy was waiting for them. The drill instructor had lost one arm, one leg, and one eye in battle, and having opted for electro-mechanical prostheses rather than the lab-grown limbs that most people preferred, he was more cyborg than man. And his replacement parts whirred and clicked whenever he moved.

  But even though the replacement parts might not have been as pretty as their flesh-and-blood counterparts, they were very functional and granted Murphy a level of grim credibility he would not have had otherwise. Like most DIs, he was a pretty good actor, but his threats rang hollow, since the boots knew they were going to graduate at 1500 hours.

  By that time it was clear that Macaby and the citizens of Braddock had been well aware of what would happen when the Marine Corps turned hundreds of recruits loose on the town. But appearances were important to discipline, so Murphy pretended to chew them out and the recruits pretended to listen.

  Finally, when the speech was over, the noncom sent them off to “take showers, get some chow, and prepare for inspection at 1400 hours.”

  Neither Raynor nor Harnack felt like eating, but Kydd did, much to their disgust. But what Raynor did want to do was call home. He had no idea what time it was for them on Shiloh, but figured his parents would be glad to hear from him regardless, especially on such an important day. It was going to cost several weeks’ pay to use the interplanetary fone, he knew that, but figured the sound of their voices would be worth it.

  But before he could place the call, it was first necessary to wait through a fifteen-minute line before gaining access to one of the two dozen public comm units that were available for the boots to use. Finally, having been routed through an intricate series of signal boosters and relays, Raynor heard a series of beeps as the fone rang. Then, on the sixth ring, he heard his father’s voice. A vidfeed would have cost twice as much, so he had to settle for just audio. “I don’t know who this is,” Trace said, “but you’d better have one helluva good reason for calling at two in the morning.”

  “It’s me, Dad,” Raynor said. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be a marine two hours from now. We’re about to graduate from boot camp.”

  Raynor grinned as his father said, “Wake up, hon, it’s Jim!” Then, clearly awake by that time, Trace Raynor said, “Damn, it’s good to hear your voice, Son… . I wish we could be there to see the ceremony.”

  “They’re going to give each one of us a vidsnap,” Jim replied. “I’ll send it along as soon as I get it. How are things going?”

  “Fine,” Trace answered, “just fine. Hold on a sec… . Here’s your mother.”

  Jim knew all of his father’s inflections, and the hesitancy in the older man’s voice made him wonder if things were going well, or if Trace Raynor was hiding something. So after his mother asked about his health, and where he was likely to be sent after boot camp, Jim put the same question to her. “So, Mom, Dad says everything is fine … but that’s what he would say even if the robo-harvester blew up. I’m counting on you to tell me the truth.”

  “Well,” Karol Raynor said, “there’s a new regulation. Every farmer has to buy a business license. And they cost two thousand credits each. So that was something of a blow … but here’s the good news. Thanks to your signing bonus we were able to pay it! So in that sense everything is fine.”

  What his mother hadn’t said was that the cost of the license had consumed two-thirds of the bonus, which meant they wouldn’t be able to pay their taxes as planned. Suddenly Jim wondered if joining the Marine Corps had been such a good idea after all. But it wouldn’t do to say that, so he told his mother that he was happy to hear it, and was careful to change the subject.

  “You should see Tom now … he lost about ten pounds, he can do a hundred push-ups, and he claims to be good-looking. He says ‘Hi,’ by the way, and wants you to know that the cookies you sent me were really good. And he should know, ’cause he ate six of them.”

  Karol laughed. “You tell Tom that another package is on the way!” Then, after some heartfelt good-byes, it was time for Raynor to surrender the fone to the next person in line. It was nice to know his parents were okay, but the conversation still left Raynor with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Once the recruits had showered and shaved, it was time to put on the antiquated CMC-200 series armor that they’d been training in for weeks. Each suit had logged thousands of hours of use before being repurposed for use in boot camp, and smelled funky inside.

  Only about twenty percent of the hardskins were fully combat-ready at any given time, but they looked good, thanks to the countless hours that each recruit was required to spend washing, polishing, and applying touch-up paint to them. And the attention to detail didn’t end there. Each gauss rifle had been cleaned, lubricated, and inspected to make sure that not so much as a tiny fleck of dirt or rust could be found on it.

  Then, having checked one another for flaws, the recruits filtered out onto the grinder for the final inspection that would precede the trooping of the colors. During the ceremony each company would carry a flag that belonged to a serving battalion. This would honor the line units that many of the newly graduated marines would soon be part of.

  Could the people on the reviewing stand actually see a ding from hundreds of feet away? Murphy claimed that they could, but Raynor knew that was absurd, not that it made any difference.

  So they stood inspection, Murphy pronounced himself happy with the results, and was visibly proud as the flag for the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines was given to the company’s four-person color guard for safekeeping. Kydd, who had been chosen to march on the right side of the battalion’s flag with a gauss rifle on his shoulder, was beaming with pride.

  There was a fifteen-minute wait for all of the units to get into position, followed by a barely heard order from the training command’s sergeant major, and a swift flurry of drumbeats as the troops went into motion. The band played To the Eternal Glory of the Confederacy followed by a sequence of stirring marches as each company completed a full circuit of the grinder before coming to a much-pract
iced stop in front of the reviewing stand.

  As luck would have it, Kydd’s company was toward the center of the large formation and the four-person color guard was directly in front of the stand. So when Macaby rose to introduce the battalion’s guest of honor, Kydd could not only hear, but see the Honorable Cornelius Brubaker, who was one of his father’s best friends!

  As Brubaker began to speak, Kydd was tempted to break ranks and run forward, thereby rescuing himself from the Marine Corps. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, however, because even though the strategy would almost certainly be successful, it would ruin the graduation ceremony for his friends. Plus, given Macaby’s promise to buck his case up to division level, Kydd figured there was no need to make a scene. Once the people at the top took action, justice would be done. In the meantime, it felt wonderful to be truly good at something, and to be included in an organization on account of his personal accomplishments, rather than the name he had been born with.

  So Kydd stood at parade rest, eyes front, as Brubaker thanked the newly graduated marines for their dedication and sacrifice. And that was when Kydd remembered that the rifle on his shoulder had been manufactured by a subsidiary of Brubaker Holdings—which meant that both the businessman and his family had profited handsomely from the wars. Just as Bennet Industries had. In fact, the more people and equipment that were destroyed, the better it would be for the Old Families! No wonder Brubaker had been willing to speak.

  Once Brubaker’s comments were over, and he returned to his seat, Macaby stepped up to the podium again. “It is my pleasure, and my lasting honor, to welcome you to the Confederacy’s Marine Corps,” the officer began. “As you know, once marines complete basic training they are normally sent on to Advanced Infantry Training, or AIT. However, due to the somewhat unusual situation here on Turaxis II, we have an opportunity to provide you with actual combat experience, rather than further training scenarios.”

  At that point the battalion’s sergeant major shouted, “Hip, hip …” and the marines shouted, “Hooray!”

  Macaby smiled knowingly, as if to suggest that he could scan minds. “I know all of you want to get out there and fight the Kel-Morians as soon as possible! But it wouldn’t be a good idea to drop you directly into a combat situation without some additional seasoning—so you will spend your first few weeks well back of the front lines. Then, when your commanding officers decide that you’re ready, they’ll move you up. All in all it will be a good way to support our line units while providing you with the extra training you need.

  “Once you return to quarters you will receive your orders, load-out schedules, and an additional issue of field gear. Your armor will be issued to you when you arrive at your receiving command. Again, congratulations, and good luck.”

  At that point the sergeant major shouted, “Atten-hut!” and a crash-thump was heard as the training battalion obeyed.

  Then, after three beats came the order, “Dis-missed!” and a cheer went up as Raynor, Harnack, and all the rest removed their helmets.

  During the celebration none of them noticed the semi-transparent figure that had materialized on a steel walkway high above their heads, or heard what the apparition had to say: “Some of you will lead—and others will follow. Those who lead must spend lives wisely—and those who follow must give themselves gladly. For you share a common bond, and when you die, it will be for each other.” Then, like the spirit he was, Gunnery Sergeant Travis disappeared.

  BORO AIRBASE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The trip from the airstrip adjacent to Turaxis Prime to Boro Airbase covered more than seven thousand miles, all aboard a maxed-out four-engined Bennet Industries heavy transport aircraft. The huge transport had been designed to haul anything from troops to tanks—which meant scant attention had been paid to the creature comforts. So the three hundred–plus troops packed into rows of removable seats could do little more than shoot the breeze, make use of whatever was stashed on their newly returned fones, and take uneasy naps as the large vehicle droned toward its destination.

  Raynor and Kydd, both of whom enjoyed reading and listening to music, took the trip in stride, but it was more difficult for Harnack, who slept some but spent a lot of time fidgeting and bothering those seated around him.

  Raynor, who was listening to the latest music file that Kydd had sent him, frowned and pulled one of his earbuds loose. “This stuff is kind of slow, Ryk … and what the hell is a fugue?”

  “It’s an imitative polyphonic composition, in which a theme or themes are stated successively in all of the voices of the contrapuntal structure,” Kydd replied matter-of-factly. “Keep listening—it will grow on you.”

  Raynor nodded, put the earbud back in, and surreptitiously switched to a tune called “The Mar Sara Shuffle” by Harvey and the Heartbreakers.

  When the transport entered Turaxis II’s eastern hemisphere, four Avengers took up stations around it, because the aircraft was a juicy target for the KM fighters. So once the landing gear finally thumped to the ground, and the transport taxied to what looked like a new terminal building, the marines were glad to deass the plane and collect their gear from the jumble of bags that came out of the cargo compartments. “Damn, it feels good to get off that piece of crap,” Harnack exclaimed, as the three of them lined up to retrieve their bulky B-2 bags.

  “Since my family built that ‘piece of crap,’ as you call it,” Kydd replied cheerfully, “I’ll pass your complaint along to Father the moment he shows up.”

  “Which will be in about a hundred years,” Harnack replied skeptically. “Face it, rich boy, you’re in for the duration.”

  “And you’re in the way,” Raynor put in, as the marines in front of them got their bags and left. “Get your butt in gear.”

  Then, having been sorted into numbered contingents, the heavily burdened newbies were herded through a guarded gate and into what had once been a hangar. Awaiting them were rows of open crates and a long line of tables. There was barely a pause as Raynor’s retinas were scanned, he was told to advance, and a corporal shoved an E-9 rifle across the table at him. Kydd produced a whoop of joy as he was issued a Bosun FN92, and Harnack took delivery on an SR-8 shotgun. Rifle slings, cleaning kits, and ammo were distributed as they progressed down the line and past a grim-faced sergeant whose sole responsibility was to say, “Do not load your weapons until instructed to do so.”

  There was more, much more, as the newly arrived marines were given instructions on everything from how to find the mess hall to what sort of gear to take with them in the morning. A half-hour later they were dismissed, and as Raynor left Assembly Area Alpha, he noticed that something was different. Rather than being marched to dinner, they were free to find their own way. Not a huge change, perhaps, but an indication that they weren’t boots anymore, and that felt good.

  After being rousted out at 0500 hours, the marines were fed, ordered to pack up their gear, and hustled onto three military trucks. A fourth was loaded with B-2 bags that they weren’t going to see again until they arrived at Fort Howe. Wherever that was. In the meantime Raynor figured it was going to be a long, tiresome day as the trucks pulled out onto a four-lane road. There they became part of a metal flood that was headed southeast, where most of the fighting was.

  The temperature began to climb as the sun arced higher into the sky, so the marines raised the waterproof fabric that protected the cargo area and let muggy air flow through the back. They sat facing one another, with their backs to the road, but Raynor tried to see what he could.

  Everything looked pretty normal at first as the long convoy wound its way through scenic farmland, across rural bridges, and through little towns. But eventually, after a stop to eat their rations in a dusty turnout, the bucolic setting began to change.

  Raynor saw the first signs of the wars on the equipment that was beyond repair. SCVs were making field repairs, but there had been no way to salvage the flame-scorched tanks and chunks of unidentifiable wreckage that he wa
tched roll by. It was a sobering sight.

  Then the convoy began to pass through small cities that had clearly been attacked from the air, past burned-out buses that had been pushed off the road, and fields that had been transformed into civilian shantytowns. Those were the hardest to look at, as hollow-eyed adults stood and stared, and skinny children ran along beside the trucks, holding their hands up. Raynor tossed every bit of food he had over the side, and others did likewise, but he knew that a few cans of fruit and some energy bars weren’t going to make much difference.

  “There hasn’t been any fighting back home yet,” Raynor said to Kydd, as they left the latest encampment behind. “But if the war spreads to Shiloh, my mom and dad could wind up like that.”

  Kydd nodded, but looked away, clearly thinking about his parents. They, like most members of the Old Families, were safe on well-protected Confederate core worlds like Tarsonis.

  “I can’t believe it’s this bad,” Raynor said.

  “Me, neither.”

  “It just seems so hopeless. What can we possibly do to help these people?”

  “I don’t know. I guess just do what we’re told, and hopefully it’ll make a difference.”

  “This isn’t what I thought it was gonna be like,” Raynor said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  They sat in silence for a while as the depressing scenery rolled by. After a while Raynor turned around and found Harnack quietly throwing dice with a hollow-faced marine named Max Zander. Raynor was glad to see that his boisterous friend had found something to do besides piss everyone off—even if he was destined to lose most of his money.

  Still, all of the people he’d known in boot camp were starting to change, and that included Hank. He was still hair-trigger, and a bit unpredictable when off duty, but squared away the rest of the time. In fact, it was very rare for a noncom to find fault with either his uniform or his weapon.