Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  It was all that Raynor, Harnack, and the rest of them could do to keep from breaking out into laughter as Quigby finished his sermon and turned to introduce the medic. “Petty Officer Cassidy will monitor each one of you for symptoms,” the officer said sternly, “and report them to me. I should add that she’s part of an experiment to see if medics should be added to the table of organization for standard infantry units, and we’re lucky to have her.”

  Not too surprisingly, Cassidy—upon whom Tychus had bestowed the nickname “Doc”—was invited to join Tychus, Raynor, and the rest of them as they left Fort Howe that evening. By the time they returned to base, Tychus had a possessive arm draped across the medic’s shoulders, and, judging from her expression, she was happy with the arrangement. A fact that was something of a disappointment to Harnack, who would otherwise have taken a run at her. The whole thing was smoothly done, and when Doc made her first report to Vanderspool, he smiled.

  More than two weeks had passed since the sale in Whitford. Long, hard weeks for everyone, including Lieutenant Quigby, Hiram Feek, and, to a lesser extent, Tychus, all of whom served as instructors. But once the steadily growing platoon mastered the CMC-225s, and graduated to the new CMC-230 series suits, Tychus went from instructor to student overnight. Because the Thunderstrike armor required a whole new set of skills—as crash after painful crash proved. It took both experience and good judgment to decide exactly how much power to apply during liftoff, maintain what Feek called “a heads-up posture” during transit, and to land without “making an ungodly mess” as Quigby referred to “non-compliant landings.”

  And Quigby was a stickler. Everyone suffered under his arrogant tutelage, but no one more than Doc Cassidy. The reason for that wasn’t entirely clear, but probably had something to do with her lack of respect for him, which she signaled in subtle and not so subtle ways. Like forgetting to salute, call him “sir,” or comply with regulations that she considered to be stupid.

  As a result Quigby rode her constantly, always looking for fault, and always finding it. That made Doc angry, which led to the incident in which he was forced to take a full course of inoculations all over again because his medical records had been “lost.”

  It had gotten so bad that Quigby tried to have Cassidy transferred out, only to have the request turned down by the company commander, who claimed that Colonel Vanderspool was “monitoring the situation.” Whatever that meant.

  But now, as the officer sucked a mouthful of water through the tube in his helmet and swallowed it, he had every reason to feel proud as he made his way down the line of fully armored soldiers that comprised the mixed-forced battalion known as the 321st Colonial Rangers.

  Sergeant Findlay and the first squad stood ramrod straight, their blue armor gleaming in the morning sun. Quigby had come to rely on the huge noncom, who, in spite of his criminal record, was clearly more trustworthy than the rest.

  Lance Corporal Raynor was next in line, but a bit too smart for his own good and therefore presumptuous. It would be a long time before he was promoted.

  Quigby was slightly disappointed to see that Doc Cassidy’s hardskin looked good. Her armor was different from all the rest; it had red crosses on both shoulders and the word medic emblazoned across her chest. Would that save her from a Kel-Morian rocket? No, probably not, but it was worth a try.

  Suddenly Quigby felt slightly dizzy. Was it the Vilnorian curry he’d consumed the night before? Yes, probably. His mouth felt dry, so he drank some water, and was grateful when the vertigo disappeared.

  Private Harnack’s red firebat suit was noticeably different from the blue armor the others wore, and not just because of the color. The tanks built into the hardskin gave it a bulky profile, which the enemy would soon learn to fear.

  And then there was Private Ward, whose suit was equipped with two rocket launchers, one mounted on each shoulder. Both were capable of firing four fire-and-forget missiles. Just the thing for battling armored Kel-Morians, which Ward was clearly eager to do.

  And so it went as Quigby eyed Zander and the rest of squad one before turning his attention to squad two. That was when the dizziness returned. He staggered and nearly lost his balance. Sergeant Stetman, who was in charge of the second squad, was there to steady him. “Are you okay, sir? Should I have Doc take a look?”

  “I’m fine,” Quigby insisted impatiently, as he shook the noncom off. If there was a worse possibility than submitting himself to Cassidy’s not-so-tender ministrations, the officer couldn’t imagine what it was.

  Besides, Colonel Vanderspool was in the process of reviewing the new battalion on the parade ground nearby. In fact, Quigby could hear the sound of martial music, the occasional clash of cymbals, and knew his father was among the VIPs seated near the carefully arranged buffet. And opportunities to impress General Quigby didn’t come along every day.

  So Quigby fought off the vertigo and accompanying nausea long enough to complete a perfunctory inspection, checked the readout in the upper right-hand corner of his HUD, and saw that it was time to prepare for what was intended to be a very spectacular jump. The idea was to leap over the audience as the last of the battalion’s conventional troops marched past, and land facing the VIPs in perfect formation! It was the sort of thing that was bound to leave a lasting impression.

  There was a problem, however, a very urgent problem, which Quigby was powerless to solve. Suddenly he needed to go to the bathroom! And unlike some combat suits that were equipped to recycle waste, the prototype was not. Sergeant Findlay could lead the troops, of course, but that would mean missing a rare opportunity to impress his father, so Quigby chose to gamble instead.

  Thanks to the fact that the ceremonial jump had been practiced at least fifty times, the orders came naturally, as Quigby instructed the platoon to stand by, and watched the last few seconds tick away. Then, as he said, “Jump!” the entire platoon took to the air.

  There wasn’t much to do on the way up, as thirty-six sets of armor soared over the line of trees that bordered the parade ground and quickly reached apogee. At that point it was necessary to cut power for a second and fire steering jets as gravity pulled the hardskins down. The problem was that Quigby had lost control of his bowels by then, along with the CMC-230-XE itself.

  The result was an amazing and almost perfectly synchronized THUMP as thirty-five sets of boots hit the ground at once, each gleaming soldier standing at attention. All except for Quigby, that is, who landed on his back in the middle of the buffet table, thereby destroying it and showering all of the VIPs with flying food!

  People began to scream.

  That was bad enough, but the moment was made immeasurably worse when the suit’s onboard computer decided that Quigby was in need of immediate medical attention and blew itself open so that medical personnel could access his body. That left a mostly naked Quigby lying spread-eagled on top of the wreckage with a dazed expression on his face, and semi-liquid feces all over his light-colored pants. General Quigby was not amused. Nor was Colonel Vanderspool.

  Without opening his visor, Tychus communicated with his squad over the comm. “Doc? What the hell happened? What’s wrong with Quigby? Over.”

  There was a long moment of silence—followed by Cassidy’s voice. “It’s really hard to say, Sarge, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was something in the water. Over.”

  That was followed by an explosion of laughter, the sound of an approaching siren, and an order from the battalion’s furious executive officer. The review was over.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “No question about it; I’m gonna be strong and tough and smart, and I’m gonna help all the farmers here get free from them bankers. Stick by your people: that’s what Pa says.”

  Tom Omer, in an excerpt from a 5th grade report entitled “When I Grow Up” June 2478

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The sun was low in the sky, shadows lay long on the ground, and the air was starting to cool as Lisa Cassidy
prepared to leave the base. Although the nearby city of Whitford lay in ruins, and the Honky Tonk District that adjoined Fort Howe had suffered some collateral damage during the recent attack, the HTD—as the troops referred to it—was not only resilient but still open twenty-five hours a day. And as Doc slipped out through the west gate, the two-block-deep strip of tawdry bars, strip joints, and flophouses took her in.

  The HTD was her real home in many respects, since none of the bartenders, thieves, or hookers who lived there thought less of Cassidy because she was a crab addict. On the contrary, they understood her in a way that her military buddies couldn’t. And that granted Doc a sort of sleazy legitimacy her fellow rangers couldn’t hope for and weren’t seeking.

  Still, Cassidy liked the other members of her squad well enough, even if they were absurdly easy to manipulate. Something that made her feel slightly guilty but a bit smug, too. Because, at the end of the day, it was each person’s responsibility to look out for themselves.

  And in her case that meant feeding Colonel Vanderspool a steady stream of information in return for relative freedom and a steady supply of crab. And that was a delicate task. Because if she said too much, her squad mates might find out, and if she said too little, Vanderspool would send her to a work camp.

  “Hey, hottie, you need some company?” a soldier inquired hopefully, as Doc made her way past the sidewalk table where he and his buddies were seated.

  “I’ll let you know if I get that desperate,” the medic said as she cleared the bar and took a right. She could hear the soldiers laughing as she followed a narrow passageway back between two buildings. It reeked of urine, was littered with empties, and decorated with graffiti.

  The walkway emptied into a rather pleasant courtyard that fronted a restaurant called The Gourmand. The establishment was way too expensive for enlisted people, which was one of the reasons Vanderspool chose to eat there. That and the fact that his mistress had an apartment on the second floor.

  So Cassidy weaved between linen-covered tables to the restaurant’s south wall, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, and followed a wraparound balcony to the front of the building, just as she had on prior occasions. Vanderspool was sitting on a wicker chair near a pair of glass doors. They were open to the apartment beyond, and the faint strains of classical music could be heard from within.

  Like his guest, the officer was dressed in civvies. His outfit consisted of a yellow silk shirt, nicely tailored brown slacks, and a pair of basket weave slip-ons. He held a glass of red wine in his right hand and there was a bottle at his elbow. He nodded formally. “There you are, my dear … right on time. Punctuality is a military virtue, isn’t it? And it has to be since lives are often at stake. Please sit down. Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “No, sir. Thank you,” Cassidy replied politely, as she took a seat.

  Vanderspool winked knowingly. “It can’t compare to ten milligrams of crab, I suppose… . Although it’s a helluva lot cheaper!”

  Doc forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “So,” Vanderspool said reflectively, as he took a sip of wine. “What can you tell me about the unbelievable fiasco that took place the day before yesterday?”

  Cassidy knew the officer was referring to the review—and the manner in which Lieutenant Quigby had been publicly humiliated. “Tell you, sir?” she inquired innocently. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Don’t be coy,” Vanderspool said sternly. “You aren’t very good at it—and it pisses me off. We had the water from Quigby’s suit analyzed. It was laced with a couple of powerful drugs, plus a fast-acting laxative. The lieutenant thinks you were out to get him—but I’m betting on Findlay or one of his men.”

  Doc’s first instinct was to blame Tychus, since that was the path of least resistance, but on second thought she realized how stupid such a course might be. Because if the colonel had one spy, he could have two, and the whole squad knew she was responsible. So she looked Vanderspool in the eye and told the truth. “Lieutenant Quigby is correct, sir … I was responsible.”

  Vanderspool was so surprised by the admission that he sloshed wine onto the tablecloth as he set the glass down. “You?” he demanded. “But why?”

  “Two reasons,” Cassidy answered calmly. “First, I really detest the little bastard. And, no offense, sir, but some officers behave like assholes just for the fun of it.

  “Second, these guys have a very tight relationship. I’m in, but jerking Quigby around solidified my position. Now they really trust me. Wouldn’t you say that’s important, sir?”

  A full five seconds of silence passed. During that time the medic saw a number of expressions come and go on Vanderspool’s face, including anger, calculation, and a grudging smile. “I have to give you credit,” the officer said. “You are a scheming bitch. No offense intended,” he added sarcastically.

  Doc felt a sense of relief. “Thank you, sir. No offense taken.”

  “So, how is it going?”

  “It’s going well, sir. Once I leave here I’ll join the rest of the squad at Three Fingered Jack’s down the street. That’s where they like to hang out.”

  Vanderspool nodded. “Good. Now, one last thing before you go … I don’t give a damn about Lieutenant Quigby, but I do care about his father, the general, and your scheme made all three of us look bad. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. So here’s a piece of advice: Don’t ever do something like that again.”

  Doc heard a floorboard creak and began to turn but it was too late. Two flat-eyed soldiers, both in civilian attire, stood directly behind her. One jerked the medic out of her chair and put a full nelson on her as the other came around and positioned himself in front of her. “Give her three shots,” Vanderspool said grimly. “But leave her face alone.”

  Cassidy was tough, or believed that she was, but after three successive blows to the stomach she fell to her knees and threw up. Some of the vomit oozed down between the floorboards and fell on the table below.

  Doc heard a woman’s voice from somewhere inside the apartment. “Javier? I’m tired of waiting.”

  Vanderspool rose. His voice was hard. “Take her out to the street. That’s where trash belongs.”

  Cassidy held up a hand to stall the marines off, made use of the bottom part of the tablecloth to wipe her mouth, and struggled to her feet. Then, having executed a near perfect about-face, she left.

  When Cassidy arrived at Three Fingered Jack’s she was surprised to see that her normally high-spirited squad mates were sitting around slumped in their chairs. And if his hang-dog expression was any guide, Raynor was the most upset of all. Feek was standing on the bench next to Raynor, apparently offering words of comfort. “What’s going on?” Doc inquired, as she took a seat next to Harnack.

  “This guy Tom Omer … one of Jim’s good friends from home,” Harnack said soberly. “We all shipped out together from Shiloh. Well, Tom got tore up pretty bad during the fight at Firebase Zulu. He lost one of his lungs and one of his arms. Anyway, we just got the news that Tom died. The wounds were too much for him.”

  Harnack looked toward Raynor and back. Cassidy saw that the others were listening, too. “Jim was leading our squad the day Tom was hit so he feels like it was his fault. But that’s bullshit. I was there and it was bad luck. Nothing more.”

  “That’s true,” Kydd chimed in. “There wasn’t anything Jim could have done.”

  “They’re right,” Doc said, as she looked at Raynor. “I’ve seen a lot of people die in this war, and most of the time there isn’t any rhyme or reason to it.”

  Raynor looked up from the tabletop. There was a haunted look in his eyes. “His parents are going to be devastated, and it’s all my fault. What if I’d stayed home? What if I was there right now? Maybe Tom would be alive.”

  “Yeah,” Zander put in, “and maybe the rest of us would be dead. Because if you hadn’t been there, somebody else would have been in charge and who knows how they would have h
andled the situation.”

  “Exactly,” Kydd agreed, as Tychus arrived with a fresh bottle of Scotty Bolger’s. “All I know is that you did a lot better job than I could have. Tom would say the same.”

  “This is for Tom Omer,” Tychus rumbled, as he refilled Raynor’s glass. “I didn’t know him, but you say he was a good soldier, and that’s good enough for me. Because you’re the real deal, so Omer’s the real deal, and that’s all we need to know. Now, pick up that glass, and let’s drink a toast … to Tom Omer, who went to war, and did the best he could. We won’t forget him.”

  It was the longest speech, maybe the only speech, Raynor had ever heard Tychus give. And unlike so much of what the older man normally had to say, there hadn’t been a trace of sarcasm, condescension, or irony. The words couldn’t make the pain go away, nothing could accomplish that, but they were the source of some much-needed comfort. It was a side of Tychus Raynor hadn’t seen before and one that he welcomed.

  “Hear, hear,” Feek said, as he raised a glass. “Here’s to Tom Omer.”

  The words echoed around the table, and as Cassidy raised her glass, she felt like what she was: a fake.

  The sun had barely broken company with the eastern horizon as the old truck came to a screeching stop next to the heavily guarded gate, and Hiram Feek jumped to the ground. It was a long drop for someone of his stature, but he was used to that, and he absorbed the shock with bent knees.

  Then, having waved good-bye to the elderly driver, Feek hurried across the street to the west gate, where his retinas were scanned and the machine whirred as it ate his Priority One Civilian Pass and spit it back out again.

  Seconds later the technician was inside Fort Howe, where he made straight for the barracks in which the first squad, STM platoon, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion was quartered. Though not a member of the outfit himself, Feek felt a natural bond with the men and women who were slated to wear his creations. And the squad had adopted Feek as one of their own. Like them, he had left his family behind in order to fight—in his own way—for the cause. But right now, he had even more important matters to attend to.