Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  THE CITY OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The factory and its adjoining machine shop were set up in the spacious maintenance facility where subway cars had been repaired back before the war. Tracks led into open bays that were now occupied by goliaths. The goliaths stood with cockpits open as pilots and technicians ran final checks, a power wrench screeched, and the bitter smell of ozone laced the air.

  Further back, in the brightly lit room once occupied by workbenches, row upon row of CMC-300 suits could be seen, all hanging from carefully aligned racks. It was 0214 hours, and the attack on the Kel-Morian repository was due to begin in less than two. There were plenty of jokes, and nearly nonstop banter, as the men and women of the 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion began to seal their suits.

  But as Raynor stepped into his armor and went about the process of connecting the padlike interfaces to various parts of his body, he knew what the people around him were really thinking. How many of us will be badly wounded? How many of us are going to die? And most importantly, Will I survive?

  Raynor’s suit smelled of someone else’s sweat, but as he examined the readouts on his HUD, all of them came up green. And that was what mattered most. Having jumped into Kel-Morian territory wearing an experimental hardskin, Raynor had a new appreciation for the tried and true.

  The “experiment” could more or less have been considered a failure, as the High Command had discontinued Thunderstrike armor following several mishaps during field tests. Though he’d never admit it to Feek, who’d spent countless hours working on the armor, Raynor also had serious doubts about its usefulness in battle.

  Needless to say, the project was put on the back burner, with the exception of the 230-XF, which was being converted into a non-jump “firebat” suit. Since the announcement, Harnack didn’t let a day go by without asking Feek when his new suit would be ready.

  Having sealed himself in, Raynor made his way over to a freestanding rack, selected the slab-sided gauss rifle that wore the same number his suit did, and took a look at the ammo indicator. It was full up.

  From the rack it was a short trip to the table where a private was distributing extra ammo. Then, having completed all of his preparations, Raynor made his way over to the assembly area next to track two. Sanchez was already there with her visor open and a rifle slung over one shoulder. “Where’s Findlay?” she asked.

  Before Raynor could answer, Kydd sidled up beside him. “He’s fondling his armor. I think he’s in love with it.”

  Sanchez laughed, and when Raynor looked over at his friend, he noticed something that made him smile even more broadly. Kydd was gazing at Lieutenant Sanchez with worshipful eyes. Raynor wasn’t surprised—she was a beautiful woman. Even her laugh had a musical quality. Raynor hoped he would get the chance to hear it again. Max Speer, who was wearing yellow armor with the word media stenciled across his chest plate, was present to capture the moment.

  ***

  The battle began as most ground attacks do, with an air strike by a squadron of Avengers, followed by an artillery barrage from a dozen siege tanks. The shells rumbled ominously as they passed over south Polk’s Pride to pound enemy held territory. And as the Confederate guns opened up, their crews immediately came under counterfire from the Kel-Morian side of the river.

  Then, as the early morning darkness was torn asunder by flashes of light and the roll of artificial thunder, the real bloodletting began.

  The first challenge Colonel Vanderspool faced was to get his troops across the river, a task two other officers had failed to accomplish. An attempt to use boats had been a complete failure. By the time the bargelike watercraft were launched, Kel-Morian artillery batteries had their range and cut them to pieces. It was said that the Paddick ran red with blood, as a battalion of bodies floated downstream, and thousands of rot birds swooped in to feast.

  A plan to launch sections of a pontoon bridge upriver, ride them down, and hook them together at the last moment had proven to be equally disastrous when one of the modules ran afoul of a sunken bridge, and rendered the rest useless. It was a colossal screw-up that left hundreds of Confed troops milling around waiting to be slaughtered by enemy air strikes and artillery fire.

  So Vanderspool had come up with a third alternative. Something that had never been tried before. A strategy that was calculated to take advantage of the fact that the Paddick River was much shallower than usual.

  The first person to witness Vanderspool’s genius was a lowly Kel-Morian taskmaster named Evers who, along with his squad of outriders, was on a routine patrol when the air attacks and the artillery barrage began. So there he was, inside the gutted remains of a waterfront warehouse, waiting for the ground to stop shaking under his boots when a pair of softly glowing forms materialized from the ruins on the other side of the Paddick.

  Evers thought their size, as well as the amount of heat they were generating, was consistent with that produced by Confederate goliaths, and his HUD confirmed the hypothesis. Okay, the taskmaster thought to himself, all they can do is strut back and forth along the riverfront and take occasional potshots at us. What a waste. Our artillery will pound them flat in no time at all.

  Had it been daylight Evers would have known better, but it wasn’t until the first goliaths entered the river that he realized the specially modified walkers were carrying something between them, and understood what the Confederates were up to. The goliaths were carrying sections of a pontoon bridge between them, and because of their height, would be able to wade across the Paddick!

  Then, having created a span over which regular troops could cross, the combat walkers would switch to an offensive role and open fire on anyone who opposed them, thereby establishing a beachhead that would be very difficult to dislodge. That was important stuff, and Evers was just about to tell his superiors all about it when a Kel-Morian artillery shell fell short and landed directly on top of his position. He and his squad were decimated.

  The resulting flash of light strobed the surface of the river, and two walkers could be seen, both almost fully submerged as they towed a section of bridge between them. Three minutes later they were ashore where they secured the section designated as “span one” to pre-selected anchor points. With that accomplished, they scanned the ruins for targets and began to kill everything warm enough to produce a heat signature. Meanwhile, the next pair of goliaths was hooking span two to span one.

  That was when the Kel-Morian overseer in charge of north Polk’s Pride was awoken from a deep sleep and given the news: The Confederates had thrown a bridge across the Paddick and walkers were already coming ashore. He swore, wondered how such a thing was possible, and whom he could blame.

  Other than the goliath pilots and Max Speer, who insisted on dashing across first in order to get a shot of their arrival, a resoc named Sergeant Trent and his squad were the first people to cross the newly created bridge. Sanchez, Raynor, Tychus, Harnack, Kydd, Ward, Zander, and Doc followed immediately behind, just ahead of a full company of resocialized marines. They were to be followed by the rest of the ranger battalion, plus various auxiliary units, including a platoon of SCVs.

  The comsat station and the repository were straight ahead. So even though the street that would take them there was heavily defended and preregistered by half a dozen sloths, Trent and his resocialized marines went right up the middle. Shells exploded all around them, two men fell within a matter of seconds, and the only reason the rest were able to continue forward was because the artillery barrage stopped suddenly and a squad of rippers threw themselves into the fray.

  It was a desperate move. One that was intended to stall the invaders long enough to bring reinforcements up to block their advance. Raynor felt a rising sense of anger as the rippers killed Trent and the rest of his marines within a matter of seconds. Vanderspool had known, damn him—and sacrificed the resocs like pawns in a chess game.

  Revenge came swiftly as a couple of goliaths came forward to destroy the rippers. Wa
rd unleashed four of his eight heat-seeking missiles, and a series of eye-searing explosions strobed the surrounding buildings. “Follow me!” Sanchez yelled over the platoon frequency, as she led her troops forward.

  Even as the Devils stepped over dead marines and plodded up the street firing as they went, more resocialized marines were surging forward, seemingly eager to enter the meat grinder up ahead. Raynor felt a surge of adrenaline as a ripper lurched out of a side street. Raynor brought the gauss rifle up and opened fire, knowing full well that the ensuing engagement would be more a matter of luck than skill since the two of them were evenly matched.

  And Raynor was correct, because the 8mm spike that killed the Kel-Morian wasn’t fired by Raynor. It was a ricochet that hit the plascrete in front of the enemy soldier, bounced upward, and punched its way through a weak spot in the jury-rigged armor into his helmet.

  Raynor stepped over the armored body and followed Sanchez up the blood-splashed street. Resocialized marines were all around them as a Kel-Morian goliath emerged from a parking garage to confront them. But the towering machine was transformed into bloody sleet as Ward fired the rest of his missiles at the walker and it exploded.

  Raynor felt pieces of the monster’s neosteel skin rattle against the back of his hardskin as the Devils followed Sanchez into what had been a department store. They walked parallel to the sidewalk. The front of the building gave the Devils some momentary cover as two squads of marines charged straight up the middle of the street and were cut to bloody ribbons.

  Raynor caught only glimpses of the slaughter through the store’s blown-out windows, but the sight of it made him feel sick to his stomach. It had become clear that if it weren’t for the resocs’ mindless self-sacrifice, the assault would have stalled by then. The resocs were like robots who would take chances that regular troops wouldn’t, charge no matter what the odds against them were, and die without complaint.

  It was a moment he would never forget as the Devils were forced to leave the relative safety of the store through a window and reenter the street in front of a barricade. The KMs had made use of overturned vehicles, ribbon wire, and anything else they could lay their hands on to block the entire width of the street. About two dozen Kel-Morian regulars were concealed behind the obstacle, hosing the street with automatic fire, as both the marines and the Devils pounded their fortification.

  But there were gaps between the cars, and holes in between the sheets of metal that bridged them, so Sanchez called Harnack forward. “See that gap?” she demanded. “The one next to the bus? Light ’em up.”

  Harnack’s firebat suit was impervious to small-arms fire, so with Raynor and Tychus to guard both flanks, he was able to make his way up to the barricade and send a tongue of fire in through the gap. The bus caught fire, the gas stored in its tank exploded, and a hole appeared. The resocialized marines stormed through. Two of them went down, and it was necessary for Tychus to step on one of them to reach the other side.

  Unfortunately, the next barrier was harder to overcome. Two sloths were positioned about a block away, and as the first barricade fell, both opened fire. “This way!” Sanchez shouted as she took a sudden left and led the team up a plascrete ramp and into a parking garage. The tanks were still firing at the marines and rangers as the group continued to climb.

  Once they arrived on the roof it would have been a simple matter to cut across it and make the twelve-foot jump to the next building, had it not been for the Kel-Morian dropship that was sitting on top of the garage!

  Even as the Confederates continued to charge forward, a group of unarmored Kel-Morian regulars spilled out of the dropship’s belly and opened fire. Raynor saw their weapons sparkle and heard the insistent rattle of small-caliber bullets as they hit his armor, but really couldn’t feel much.

  A few of the enemy soldiers were armed with rocket launchers, however, and Raynor saw a bright flash as a ranger’s legs were cut out from under him and his hardskin cauterized the bleeding stumps. He was screaming by then, but only until a noncom cut him out of the comm net, so that orders could be given.

  Doc was there seconds later, kneeling in a pool of blood as she eyed the scanner in the palm of her hand. Thanks to a link with the suit’s CPU she could see the patients’ vital signs. She did the best she could to comfort the soldier, as she opened the safety clasps and applied plastiscab dressings to the raw stumps. Having treated such injuries before, she knew what was on the soldier’s mind.

  “Don’t worry,” Doc said kindly, as bullets whipped around her. “They missed your balls. We’ll strap a pair of electro-mechanical sticks onto you, reprogram part of your brain, and voilà! You’ll be good as new.”

  It looked as though the advance was about to stall out when Tychus shot two Kel-Morian regulars and got close enough to toss a grenade into one of the dropship’s air intakes. The bomb exploded inside the starboard engine; it blew up, and a fuel tank went with it.

  Sanchez yelled, “Duck!” and most people did, as a fireball floated up into the sky and the dropship’s retros fired for the very last time. Then, having achieved an altitude of about six feet, the ship crashed onto the roof and broke into three large pieces. All of which continued to burn.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Ward said contentedly. “Burn, you bastards.”

  Zander slipped a set of rockets into the empty launch tubes on Ward’s shoulders. “I’m out of reloads,” Zander said. “You only have four rockets left. Use them wisely.”

  “Roger that,” Ward rumbled, as he hefted his gauss cannon. “Meet Mister Backup!”

  Both men were overridden as Sanchez ran toward the edge of the roof. “This is Alpha-One-Six, follow me!” She was picking up speed, and about to jump the gap that separated the garage from the building next to it, when a sniper hidden somewhere in the densely packed buildings on the hill in front of them squeezed his trigger. The first bullet hit her visor. The second passed through her right eye. The officer took two additional steps, toppled forward, and fell straight down.

  Tychus, who was second in command, swore as Sanchez disappeared between the two buildings. “Kydd!” he shouted, as the rest of the Devils sought cover. “Find that bastard and kill him!”

  Kydd was already on the job. He was crouched behind the low wall that circled the roof, scanning the rampart-like blast walls on the hill. The acoustic targeting system built into his suit fed information to his HUD. The other sniper was somewhere on the hill, but he already knew that. The rifle, which was normally so heavy, seemed a good deal lighter now that he was wearing powered armor.

  The sun was just starting to rise, so the eastern side of the comsat station was glazed with silvery light, and a dark shadow fell toward the west. Eventually the daylight would be helpful. But for the moment the overall light level was still relatively low, the effectiveness of Kydd’s night vision equipment was starting to fade, and there were so many targets on the fortification it was impossible to know which one to shoot at. Assuming the enemy sniper was visible, that is—and odds were that he was too smart for that.

  Making the situation worse was the fact that once Kydd fired at one Kel-Morian, the rest would seek cover. So what he needed to do was draw the other sniper out, get the sonofabitch to reveal himself, and take him out with the first shot. “This is Alpha-Two-Five,” Kydd said into his comm unit. “I need someone to draw fire. Don’t show yourself for long, though… . This guy is good.”

  Raynor was hidden behind the concrete structure that capped a set of stairs. He felt himself step out into the open, and wondered if the armor was making him foolishly overconfident. He experienced an enormous sense of relief when nothing happened, resolved to count to three before ducking into cover, and was on two when what felt like a sledgehammer struck his helmet. Raynor felt a brief moment of pain, followed by a long fall, and a sudden stop as his suit hit the ground. He heard Tychus shout, “Doc! Jim is down … Get your butt in gear, damn it!” Then he was gone.

  Kydd
was completely unaware that Raynor had been hit. All of his mental and physical energy was focused on locating and killing the Kel-Morian sniper who was concealed somewhere on the hillside in front of him. So when the enemy marksman fired, and Kydd saw the momentary wink of light that signaled a muzzle flash, he slipped into the fugue state he had first experienced on the firing range in boot camp. To him, it came easily, as though he had entered an alternate reality in which time slowed, enabling him to shift the crosshairs on his telescopic sight half an inch to the right, and consider the crosswind that could nudge the .50 caliber slug off course—all the while allowing for the chance that the fraction-of-a-second lag created by his armor could throw off his aim.

  The rifle had an enlarged trigger guard, making it possible for armored fingers to access it. And the highly specialized weapon was equipped with a two-stage trigger. That meant once the trigger was activated, and the initial slack was taken out of the mechanism, only a very light touch would be required to drop the firing pin on the round in the chamber and send death spinning through the air.

  So as the target began a slow-motion pullback, preparatory to disappearing altogether, Kydd applied the necessary amount of pressure and felt the trigger “break,” as the first stage was released. Then, having taken a deep breath and let it out, he ordered his right index finger to contract.

  The report was muffled because of his helmet, and the recoil was negligible thanks to Kydd’s hardskin. It was his duty to kill the Kel-Morian, but it was personal too, because even though she was a few years older than he was, Kydd had developed feelings for Samantha Sanchez.

  So as time jerked forward, and the heavy slug blew the top of the other sniper’s head off, Kydd felt a primal sense of exultation. He could almost hear Sanchez say, “Good shot, Private Kydd … okay, what are you people waiting for? An engraved invitation? We have a hill to climb.”

  As he imagined her voice, a lump formed in his throat. He wished he’d had the guts to give her the chocolates he had purchased for her, rather than allowing Tychus to swipe them for Doc’s birthday. He felt like such a coward.