Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  Enlisted people had a tendency to stick together, so when a corporal opened the door to Cassidy’s cell, there was something akin to sympathy in her eyes. “Time to come out, Cassidy. You got a visitor.”

  Cassidy frowned. “If it’s the chaplain, or the morale officer, tell them to go flick themselves. Or each other.”

  The MPs laughed. “No, it ain’t either one of them,” the corporal responded. “Colonel Vanderspool wants to talk to you.”

  “What’d you do, girl?” the other MP inquired. “Get up in some general’s face?”

  “Not that I remember,” Cassidy replied, as she stood. “Are you going to shackle me?”

  “Sorry,” the corporal replied apologetically. “Them’s the rules.”

  Cassidy held her wrists out, felt cold metal tighten around them, and heard the usual click. With that formality out of the way she was ordered to precede the MPs down a gleaming corridor to a checkpoint, and from there through a maze of hallways to a room labeled visitor 2.

  Once the shackles were removed, she was ordered to enter. The room was empty except for two chairs and a table, all of which were bolted to the floor. So she sat on the table and looked around. It didn’t take long to spot the spy eye mounted up in a corner. She gave the camera a one-fingered salute, felt a wave of nausea, and knew her stomach was already empty. The cramps would start soon and she wondered if she’d be able to get through the meeting first.

  Vanderspool, who was watching a monitor in a surveillance room, smiled grimly as the young woman flipped him off. “So this is the one?”

  Captain Marvin Ling was in charge of both the brig and base security. He’d been wounded while trying to defend the main gate and still had a bandage wrapped around his head. Ling’s eyes shifted from the monitor to Vanderspool. “Yes, sir. She fits the description. Petty Officer Cassidy is intelligent, good at what she does, and addicted to crab. And, according to an evaluation performed six months ago, she may be addicted to the adrenaline rush associated with combat as well.”

  Ling’s hand went up to touch the bandage that was wrapped around his head. “She was in the thick of it the other night, gave aid to at least a dozen swabbies, and shot a Kel-Morian Air Wolf in the face.”

  Vanderspool eyed the woman on the monitor. She was clutching herself as a series of tremors ran through her body. “And then?”

  Ling shrugged. “And then she went to her stash, got binked, and passed out. Some of my people found Cassidy unconscious in a lavatory and brought her in. According to her personnel file this is the third time she’s been in the brig for a drug-related offense, and that makes her a prime candidate for a work camp.”

  “Or maybe she can find redemption in some other way,” Vanderspool replied as he got up to leave. “I’ll find out. And Captain Ling …”

  “Sir?”

  “Have someone turn off the camera and audio pickup in that room. The matter that Petty Officer Cassidy and I are about to discuss is classified.”

  Ling nodded. The motion made his head hurt. “Yes, sir.”

  An MP escorted Vanderspool down a corridor, through a checkpoint, and from there to the door labeled visitor 2.

  Having unlocked the door, the MP pulled it open, allowed Vanderspool to pass through, and returned to the hall. There was an audible click as the door closed. Cassidy stood and was about to come to attention when Vanderspool waved the courtesy off. “There’s no need for that, Petty Officer Cassidy. I’m Colonel Vanderspool. Please have a seat.”

  Now that he could see Cassidy more clearly, Vanderspool realized that the medic was quite pretty. Something that could be advantageous, given what he had in mind for her. Cassidy had short, brown hair worn in a shaggy cut that might have made her appear boyish except for the fact she had a very feminine face. The look in her large, luminous eyes was worldly and vulnerable at the same time. A combination that exerted a definite pull on Vanderspool and would probably appeal to other men as well. Like those in Findlay’s squad. There was no way to be certain, but the odds were pretty good. “So, my dear,” Vanderspool said, adopting an avuncular tone. “I hear you are a crab addict.”

  ***

  Doc had been in the Colonial Fleet long enough to know that something unusual was taking place. Colonels didn’t come to visit lowly medics unless there was a reason. Vanderspool wanted something from her, but what? Sex? Yes, she could tell he was attracted to her, but figured there was something else in play too—something he wanted and she had the power to give. And, being an expert at getting what she wanted, Doc knew how to play it. If she could fight off the withdrawal symptoms long enough to take advantage of the opportunity. “Yes, sir.”

  Vanderspool nodded. “Good. I’m glad you chose to admit it. Had you said anything else I would have left you to your fate. You’ll be happy to know that I’m not here to lecture you about the evils of crab or to threaten you with punishment. Word is, crab has become increasingly hard to find these days. So I’m here to offer you a continued opportunity to ply your skills as a medic, and access to a reasonable amount of crab, in return for regular reports on a certain group of soldiers. Soldiers who may or may not be engaged in illegal activities. Would you be interested in such a role?”

  Something shifted deep inside Cassidy’s brooding eyes. “And if I say no?”

  “Then you’ll be sent to a work camp. Not as a punishment for saying ‘No,’ but because that’s where you were headed before this conversation took place.”

  “Then my answer is yes.”

  “Excellent,” Vanderspool replied. “You won’t be sorry.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Three members of the UNN reporting staff were apprehended by Confederate officials today under charges of sedition related to last week’s unauthorized airing of war footage. UNN president Preston Shale released a statement condemning the reporters for acting against the interests of the Universal News Network and Confederate citizens across the sector. He also thanked the new staff member responsible for blowing the whistle, a journalist named Handy Anderson. We’ll be interviewing Anderson tonight for his insights into the case as well as the road that led him from the battlefield to the news desk.”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN October 2488

  THE CITY OF WHITFORD, NEAR FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  As the last moon dropped below the horizon, and day finally faded to night, stars appeared in the sky. Occasional rectangles of buttery light could be seen here and there, but most of what had once been the city of Whitford was soon engulfed by the steadily encroaching darkness and everything that went with it.

  By some miracle the city’s two-story bell tower was still standing and provided an excellent vantage point from which to survey the mostly deserted ruins below. There were still some inhabitants, of course, citizens who had chosen to live in the rubble rather than follow one of the highways out into the countryside to lead a miserable life in one of the teeming refugee camps.

  Such individuals were cautious, however, and had to be, since all manner of predators prowled the city’s remains. Thanks to the night vision capability built into his helmet, Raynor could see occasional rectangles of brighter green that marked internally heated structures, all of which had to be fortified.

  There were individual blobs of light, too, some standing sentry duty on rooftops, while others hurried through the ruins trying to complete some errand or other before complete darkness lay claim to the land. The occasional pop, pop, pop of small arms fire could be heard as people shot feral dogs, fought off intruders, or settled scores. Whitford was a dangerous place to live—and a dangerous place to do business. “Who did you say our customer is?” Raynor asked.

  Tychus spoke around the cigar that was clenched between his teeth as he continued to examine the city via his own visor. “Why clutter up that busy little head of yours with unnecessary information? Suffice it to say that he’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Raynor said lightly. �
�I was afraid he might be a criminal or something.”

  The whole question of what to do with the loot had been discussed over beers the night before. Tychus had claimed to have a buyer lined up and was willing pay each member of the team a fee if they would help deliver the goods.

  Most of the team was enthusiastic about the idea, Raynor being the exception, since the whole truck-stealing episode had continued to weigh on his conscience. “Absolutely not. I don’t want anything to do with it,” Raynor had said.

  As the guys discussed it further, Raynor became irritated at the notion that Tychus would get to keep most of the money. “Why wouldn’t everybody share equally?” Raynor demanded.

  “I’m the one with the contacts—so I should get a bigger share,” Tychus responded, eyeing the faces around him.

  “That’s a crock,” Raynor replied heatedly .“There wouldn’t be any loot without the team!”

  Tychus seemed to consider it for a moment, then leaned back, as a lazy smile appeared on his face. “You have me there, Jim … equal shares it is.”

  “That’s right!” Raynor said.

  And it was only then, as Tychus took a swig of beer, his smile spreading across his face, that Raynor realized he had been conned. The guy was smooth, very smooth.

  “Come on,” Tychus said, pulling Raynor out of his thoughts. “It’s time to go down and collect our money. The kid will keep an eye on our neighbors. Ain’t that right, Kydd?”

  Like the rest of the squad, Kydd was supposed to be thirty miles to the west, getting drunk in the town of Orley, where an officially sanctioned R&R facility had been established for that purpose. And with any luck at all they would be there later that evening, once the deal was done. Strangely, given his former station in life, the prospect of providing security for an illegal transaction didn’t bother him in the least. Perhaps that had something to do with the way he had been recruited into the Marine Corps—and the fact that he was doing something he was good at for a change. Kydd looked up from the Bosun FN92 sniper rifle and nodded. “No worries, Sarge. I have you covered.”

  Raynor, who thought there was plenty to worry about, followed Tychus down a circular staircase to the chapel below. All of the windows were blacked out, and thanks to a liberated battery, lights hung here and there. The nave was barely large enough to hold the truck, which had been backed into it. An absolute necessity to prevent the vehicle from being spotted from the air.

  Heavily draped double doors opened onto a courtyard and a shattered gate beyond. A luminescent Harnack was visible to the left, and Zander to the right. Both were standing adjacent to box-shaped structures that resembled tombs.

  Raynor hoped the deal would go down smoothly. He wanted to score some money for his parents, but hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anyone to get it. Since they were dealing with criminals, he knew violence was a possibility, so he was prepared for the worst. Of course now, having taken part in the theft of the trucks, he was a criminal himself. A shocking notion that he was still trying to assimilate.

  Raynor’s thoughts were interrupted by a burp of static and the sound of Kydd’s voice in his ear. “I have two vehicles approaching from the northeast,” the sniper said. “Both are about the right size and shape. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Raynor said, knowing the rest of the team had heard as well. “You know what to do. Over.”

  There was a double click by way of a response.

  “Okay, everybody,” Tychus said, “it’s showtime!”

  A few moments later two green blobs appeared at the gates and disgorged smaller green blobs, which entered the open courtyard. There was a pause while the various players eyed each other suspiciously, followed by another pause as the buyer’s chief of security circled the area. Then, satisfied that the courtyard was reasonably safe, he spoke into a lip mic.

  That was when the buyer entered the courtyard and paused to look around. Because of the night vision technology Raynor was using, the details were hard to discern, but he had the impression of a portly middle-aged man wearing night goggles and a white suit. “What a shame,” the man said sadly. “My daughter was married here. That was a very special day. What about you, citizen Smith?” the buyer said, as he looked from Raynor to Tychus. “Do you have children?”

  “Probably,” Tychus admitted. “But who can keep track? Did you bring the crystals?”

  “Of course,” the buyer said airily. “You know my reputation. So let’s take a look at the components … the very latest in jammers if I’m not mistaken.”

  Raynor knew that Kydd was keeping watch, but he couldn’t help but look around nervously. He still couldn’t believe he had let Tychus rope him in—again. This will be the last time, he told himself.

  “Follow me,” Tychus replied, and led the man inside. If the buyer was shocked to discover that stolen electronics were being stored inside a chapel, he gave no sign of it as two of his employees jumped up onto the truck and began to inventory the cargo. All the crates had already been opened, in order to speed the process along, but it was still necessary to inspect the boxes on the bottom. So a good twenty minutes passed before the entire process was completed.

  Finally, having received a positive report from his chief of security, the buyer declared himself satisfied. “It appears that everything is in order… . Here’s your payment.”

  With that, the pear shaped blob waved one of his bodyguards forward. The functionary was carrying a metal case, which he presented to Tychus. The noncom opened it, inspected the crystals stored within, and passed a small, multi-spectrum analyzer over them. Then, having scanned the readout, he nodded approvingly. “They look good… . It’s been nice doing business with you. Will you need help getting the truck out of here?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” the buyer assured him. “Farewell, my friend … and stay safe. These are dangerous times.”

  With that the buyer returned to his vehicle while one of his men started the truck, and drove it out through the double doors and into the courtyard beyond. Dust kicked up as it passed through the gate.

  Once the buyer was gone and peace had settled over the scene, Connor Ward slid the top of a tomb out of the way and stood up. His rocket launcher was loaded and ready at his side. “Damn … That’s the last time I spend time in a tomb—until the last time I spend time in one!”

  The comment might have been sufficient to elicit a chuckle from the others except that Kydd preempted the moment. “Uh oh, here comes company, Sarge! I have about fifteen heat signatures. They’re on foot and closing from the south. Over.”

  Raynor swore bitterly. He’d been hoping for a clean exit.

  “They were waiting until the buyer left, the bastards,” Tychus observed, as the first muffled shot was heard. “They saw our customer arrive, figured some sort of deal was in progress, and now they plan to steal the proceeds.”

  Raynor knew that these people were prepared to kill his friends to get what they wanted, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. “All right, Ryk … you know what to do. Thin them down. Over.”

  A shot rang out. “Hank … Max … get the combat car and drive it into the courtyard. Once you’re in position we’ll pull Kydd down out of the bell tower.”

  Both men nodded and vanished into the night. The combat car was hidden inside what had once been a store located two blocks away.

  “Come on,” Tychus said. “Kydd won’t be able to get ’em all. Let’s go out back and say ‘howdy.’”

  Tychus, Raynor, and Ward slipped out the back of the church as Kydd fired again. “I missed that one,” the sniper said flatly. “Be careful! I think they plan to rush you. Over.”

  Kydd’s prophecy came true as a small army of green blobs broke cover and were forced to weave their way between headstones as they sprinted forward. In the wake of the attack on Fort Howe, and the theft of the trucks, the team had been quick to bond. Now, faced with another common enemy, it was as though they had been fighting for years.

 
“I have them,” Ward rumbled, and fired a rocket. The range was so short the missile barely had time to arm itself before striking the first attacker and exploding.

  Raynor’s visor automatically dampened the sudden flash of light, thereby preserving his vision. Once the explosion was over, only three blobs were visible, all running away. “Let ’em go, Ryk,” Raynor said, “and come on down. We have what we came for. Let’s get out of here.”

  Kydd, whose finger had already been in the process of tightening around the two-stage trigger, let go. Then, as the targets disappeared into ruins out beyond the graveyard, a question occurred to him. The hijackers, if that’s what they were, had been running away. So why was he about to fire on them? Was it a game now? Made easy because blobs aren’t people? The answer was painfully obvious. The problem was that he didn’t feel all that guilty about it.

  Kydd got up, made his way downstairs, and followed Raynor through the much-abused double doors. His buddies were waiting, the engine roared, and cool air wrapped him in a chilly embrace. The chapel, still radiating warmth collected during daylight hours, continued to glow.

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Tychus liked Lisa Cassidy from the moment he first saw her. It was during the morning muster, and she was already present when the rest of the platoon arrived, standing at parade rest behind Lieutenant Quigby, who always made a point out of being there first. The medic was pretty, for one thing, and judging from the way she filled out her uniform, she was shapely as well. Qualities that Tychus was always on the lookout for.

  But in addition to Cassidy’s obvious physical appeal, there was her attitude, which the entire platoon got a preview of when Quigby launched into one of his rants. This particular lecture was focused on the horrors of venereal disease, the negative impact that sexual relationships could have on unit cohesion, and the need for abstinence on the part of the entire platoon. That was when Doc came to attention and delivered a one-fingered salute to the officer’s back, before returning to parade rest.