Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  “Nice shot, Kydd,” Tychus said over the squad freq. “Okay, what are you jerk weeds waiting for? Let’s jump that gap!”

  Kydd broke cover and made his way forward. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was grateful that no one could see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “They took the Kel-Morians by surprise and freed hundreds of Confederate POWs, and now the brave soldiers known as the Heaven’s Devils have been sent to a new location. Security regulations prevent me from saying where they are, but you can be sure of one thing: the enemy will be sorry!”

  Max Speer, from a dispatch filed somewhere on Turaxis II

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

  As Tychus led the Heaven’s Devils onto the roof of the building beyond, and the rest of the company followed, Doc knelt next to Raynor. The bullet had cut a deep groove into the side of his helmet and a trickle of blood was leaking out of it. Cassidy thought Raynor was dead at first.

  A servo whirred as Doc thumbed the external visor release button. It slid out of the way to reveal Raynor’s pale face. It appeared as though Raynor had turned his head, or moved just as the sniper fired, causing the round to bounce off the curvature of his helmet without penetrating it. Cassidy triggered the release on her right gauntlet so she could reach inside her patient’s helmet—and pressed a finger against a point located just below his right earlobe and at the back of his jaw.

  Raynor felt a sudden stab of pain and opened his eyes to find Doc peering down at him. “Damn,” he said. “I’m alive.”

  “’Fraid so,” Cassidy agreed.

  “How bad is it?”

  “I suspect you’ve got a scalp laceration,” Doc replied clinically, as she stood. “But your blood pressure is normal, so it can wait. What the hell were you thinking anyway?”

  Raynor reached up to take her hand. “I was thinking how lucky I was that the sniper wasn’t going to shoot me,” he said ruefully. “Damn, that hurts.”

  “You want some pain juice?”

  “Hell no … the last time you did that I felt too happy. Let’s go.”

  Having made the jump to the roof beyond, the Devils returned to street level behind the sloths. They were firing south at the resocialized marines and newly arrived rangers. All of whom were struggling to move up the street toward the hill and the repository deep inside of it. “Ward!” Tychus said, “take those bastards out.”

  Ward braced himself, took careful aim, and fired a rocket. It hit the right-hand sloth low, in between its tracks. The resulting explosions lifted the machine a couple of inches up into the air, blew a hole in its vulnerable belly, and triggered a powerful secondary explosion. That blew the turret off and sent a gout of flames shooting straight upward.

  The second sloth’s turret was coming around by then, trying to find the new threat and kill it, but that opened it up to a ground attack by the resocialized marines. They swarmed through the barricade farther down the street and came forward firing handheld rocket launchers of their own. The sloth shook as it took a couple of hits, shuddered convulsively, and blew as one of the resocs threw a D-6 charge in under its belly. The resoc died in the resulting explosion, but that made no difference to his comrades, who charged forward and quickly caught up with the Devils.

  Now the combined force was at the bottom of the hill and approaching the fortification’s heavily defended main gate. It had taken a direct hit from a siege tank and consisted of little more than a crater surrounded by a collar of debris. A bloodied leg could be seen protruding from the dirt.

  But that didn’t mean the Kel-Morians were going to let the invaders enter the repository unopposed. As the Devils and a force of resocs pushed up the slope and surged around both sides of the crater, a squad of Guild Guards was there to receive them. Suddenly, what had been an arm’s-length conflict became extremely personal as the groups overran each other.

  “To me!” Tychus shouted over the comm, as he fired his gauss rifle at point-blank range. It was important to form a phalanx that could produce massed fire and hold the real estate they’d been able to take.

  The Devils were the first to respond as Ward, Zander, and Harnack came together to form a solid front. The rangers and marines hurried to realign themselves as Ward loosed his remaining missiles. The closely spaced explosions left ragged gaps in the enemy’s ranks, but the battle was far from one-sided, as one of the guards fired his flamethrower and a ranger was engulfed in a fiery conflagration.

  Retribution came swiftly. Because rather than charge the enemy with the others, Kydd had orders to hang back and choose his targets with care. So the man with the flamethrower blew up as a slug found a fuel tank and Harnack triggered his own weapon. “You bastards want to play?” he demanded angrily, as a gout of flame played across the guards in the Kel-Morian front line. “Well, let’s fire it up!”

  Tychus, meanwhile, had met his match. The KM taskmaster was as tall as he was, but not as broad in the chest, and armor clashed as they collided. They were so close together that neither man could use his rifle for anything other than a club, so both took swings at each other. As each man blocked the other’s blows, they were forced to release their weapons and fight hand to hand.

  It was a situation that favored the Kel-Morian, because the Guild Guards prided themselves on close-quarters combat while Confederate military forces spent precious little time on such training. So Tychus found himself being subjected to a well-executed leg-wheel hip-throw and a follow-up blow that dented his helmet. Sweet mother of mercy, Tychus thought to himself, this bastard needs to die.

  But killing the other man wasn’t going to be easy as Tychus attempted to roll away. The suit’s backpack made that difficult as the Kel-Morian methodically kicked him in the side.

  As Tychus came to rest on his back, and the exhaust from his backpack splashed the ground, he caught one of the huge boots and gave it a powerful twist to the right. That brought his opponent crashing down. Tychus was quick to follow up by rolling on top of the taskmaster and sitting astride the other man’s chest.

  Tychus felt for a grenade with one hand, found it, and thumbed the Kel-Morian’s visor release with the other. It opened to reveal an unshaven face that was contorted into a fearsome grimace as the Kel-Morian struggled to buck his opponent off. “Sweet dreams, asshole,” Tychus said as he armed the grenade, dropped it into the other man’s helmet, and immediately rolled away.

  Maybe, had there been a little more time and had the Kel-Morian been able to pull his gauntlets off quickly enough, he might have been able to reach down into the cavity next to his chin and remove the bomb before it went off. But such was not the case. There was a flash of light and a loud bang as the taskmaster’s helmet exploded.

  “Quit laying down on the job,” Raynor said as he arrived on the scene and reached down to give his friend a hand.

  “I thought you were dead,” Tychus said as he came to his feet and bent to retrieve his rifle. “We were going to have a big party and everything.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Raynor replied dryly, as a marine lieutenant led a platoon of resocs across the body-strewn expanse of concrete toward the ramp beyond. “Maybe next time.”

  “Come on!” Ward shouted. “Today is the day! I can feel it!”

  “The crazy sonofabitch is going to try and get himself killed!” Raynor exclaimed. “Come on!”

  Max Speer grinned happily and continued to record the action as the Heaven’s Devils chased after Ward up the ramp and into the meat grinder beyond.

  Raynor hadn’t traveled more than a hundred feet before his boots began to slip on the blood-slicked surface. Then it became necessary to climb over piles of bodies, as the twin-barreled gauss cannon on the landing above continued to roar, and spikes blew holes through both the living and the dead. One of the badly shot-up suits belonged to the lieutenant who had been leading the platoon. He lay with an arm outstretched, as if pointing the way.

  It might have ended then
and there. But the Heaven’s Devils had a guardian angel looking out for them and his name was Ryk Kydd. So as Ward charged up the incline bellowing his rage, a piece of divine intervention was on the way. It was shaped like an armor-piercing round and smashed through the gunner’s visor. As he fell over backward, the weapon ceased firing and tilted upward.

  Another KM tried to take over, but Ward had arrived by then, and fired his gauss cannon from six feet away. A hail of spikes blew divots out of the Kel-Morian armor until one of them found a way in and bounced around for a second before running out of kinetic energy. Ward, who was surprised to be alive, paused. That gave the others a chance to catch up and hem him in.

  Having arrived on the landing, Tychus and Raynor took the opportunity to eyeball the path ahead. It was a zigzag affair that switch-backed up the hill. That enabled the defenders to fire at the attackers not only head-on, but from above as well, which made for a deadly combination. The realization was punctuated by the flat crack of a high-powered rifle. From above, a figure threw up his hands and toppled down the hill. Kydd was still on the job.

  “These people are starting to piss me off,” Tychus said, as he let his rifle fall so he could free the gauss cannon from its tripod. That was when a fresh platoon of resocialized marines arrived from below. They were under the command of Master Sergeant Rockwell. As usual he was following rather than leading as he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get up there, you jerks! Rip the bastards apart!”

  Raynor threw up a hand and stepped out to block the way. “Hold on… . There’s bound to be a gauss cannon on the next landing. Sergeant Findlay is going to take it out. Then you can advance.”

  “Ignore that command,” Rockwell ordered sternly, as he arrived on the platform. “The platoon will advance! And that’s an order.”

  With that the marines surged around Tychus and ran up the slope. A hail of spikes cut them down. “Stop!” Raynor shouted. “Wait, goddamn it!”

  But it was too late. Struggle though they might, the marines didn’t have a chance. But they were brave, or crazy, not that it made much difference. As the front ranks fell, those behind struggled forward, boots slipping as rivers of blood flowed downhill, desperately trying to achieve the goal that had been assigned to them.

  Finally, after thirty seconds or so, the last marine fell. And that was when Rockwell spoke. Raynor realized that the noncom was still on the platform! “What a bunch of losers,” Rockwell said disgustedly. “It makes you wonder what the Confederacy is coming to.”

  The haymaker started down around Raynor’s knees, gathered force as it curved upward, and made contact with the lower part of Rockwell’s helmet. It packed enough force to lift the noncom an inch off the pavement and throw him backward. He landed with a crash, skidded for three or four feet, and came to rest against the waist-high wall. “I’ll have your ass for that!” Rockwell shouted from his position on the ground. “You’re on report!”

  “And you’re an asshole,” Raynor responded disgustedly, as he turned to follow Tychus upslope. “Not to mention a coward.”

  Logically enough the repository’s overseer had sent all of his armored personnel down to the bottom of the hill in a vain attempt to stop the invaders at the main gate. So, as Tychus marched up the ramp firing the gauss cannon, the unarmored troops on the next landing were badly outmatched. Especially since each time someone tried to bring the weapon into action, Kydd killed them.

  By that time the Devils were like a well-oiled machine, darting from position to position, always careful to cover one another before advancing further. So by the time the Devils arrived on the level area, there was little more than a pile of bodies waiting there to greet them. “One more stretch to go!” Raynor exclaimed, as another squad of resocialized marines brushed past.

  “Poor bastards,” Tychus said, as he dumped the gauss cannon in favor of a KM assault rifle. The reason for his disgust quickly became apparent as a Kel-Morian goliath appeared at the top of the ramp. Now it was impossible for the Devils to fire without hitting the resocs, and the marines paid a heavy price as the goliath opened fire on them. The cannon shells literally blew them apart, spraying both sides of the ramp with gore.

  “Fall back!” Tychus shouted. “Ward! Can you take him out?”

  “No, Sarge, my tubes are empty,” the soldier replied as Zander dragged him back.

  “Damn it,” Tychus said, as the monster lumbered downhill and the Devils were forced to retreat.

  As the walker arrived on the platform and swiveled toward them, it looked as though nothing less than a wholesale slaughter was about to ensue, until one of the dead bodies stood up!

  Raynor immediately recognized the red armor and the distinctive tanks as belonging to Harnack! The Devil was behind the goliath and no more than ten feet away when he said, “Surprise!” and triggered the igniter. There was a loud whump as the flames hit the big machine, found their way into its power supply, and followed a fuel line to its source. The machine’s pilot was just starting to react when the goliath came apart and the resulting boom echoed between the buildings of north Polk’s Pride.

  Doc was already in motion, with Max Speer only steps behind her, as pieces of debris floated down out of the sky and the black smoke began to clear. That was when they saw Harnack. The front surface of his suit had been blackened and his chest plate was cracked, but he was still vertical. “Damn!” Harnack said, as he reached up to remove his helmet. “That was awesome!”

  “You are one crazy bastard,” Tychus commented as he strode past. “Bail out of that suit… . It’s toast.”

  Now that the goliath had been defeated, the trip up past the point where the resocs had been slaughtered was relatively easy. And once on top, where one of the comsat station’s sturdy legs provided cover, it was possible to spread out and go after the rear-echelon types who had been ordered to take part in a last-ditch defense effort. “Time for some sweet talkin’, boys,” Tychus announced. “We gotta seduce these ladies outta their hiding spots.”

  A few chuckles, kissing noises, and here, kitty kittys crackled through the frequency as the Devils began to stalk their prey.

  The KMs were crouched behind pieces of fanciful sculpture that harkened back to more peaceful times and were firing on anything that moved. Kydd thinned them out with a few shots while the rest of the Devils singled out their targets and took them down.

  Just then a lieutenant arrived on the scene with some resocialized marines right behind him. He waved the troops forward. Two or three fell as grenades exploded among them, but most made it through and slaughtered the KM survivors with ruthless efficiency.

  That cleared the way to the circular lobby directly below the comsat station’s mast. The lifts would take them down into the maze of tunnels below, so Tychus waved the Devils forward, but was forced to stop when the lieutenant stepped out to block the way. “Hold it right there, Sergeant,” the officer said evenly. “You will enter the elevators on my command.”

  Tychus frowned. “No offense, sir, but we have the bastards on the run… . Shouldn’t we follow up?”

  It was like talking to a rock. “We have our orders, and our orders are always correct,” the resoc answered.

  “He’s one of Vanderspool’s color guards,” Raynor said quietly. “Which means the big cheese will arrive any second now.” As if to confirm the connection, a loud roar was heard as a dropship flared in to land on the plaza beyond. And as a ramp dropped, the officer emerged. His armor was spotless. Having waited until the surrounding area was secure, Vanderspool was there to take part in the final assault, even if that gave the KMs more time to prepare.

  The reason for the delay was apparent as Speer ran forward to document the colonel’s arrival. “What an asshole,” Tychus said to no one in particular.

  “The sergeant will employ correct comm procedure,” the lieutenant said primly, “and refrain from the use of profanity. Over.”

  Raynor thought about Sanchez, the resocialized marines, and all
the others whose bodies lay like a bloody carpet between the river and the repository. An important objective had been taken. But at what price?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “… so completely devastated by war, it’s difficult to say whether the natural resources that initially drew settlers to Turaxis II were a blessing or a curse.”

  Historian Tannis Yard, in an excerpt from The Guild Wars

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

  The afternoon following the attack on the Kel-Morian repository the Confederates were still in the process of securing the repository and the area around it. A battalion of resocialized marines had been brought in to relieve the surviving members of the 321st. Clusters of them were sitting around the riverfront, shooting the breeze and waiting for a chance to cross the pontoon bridge into south Polk’s Pride.

  The span was too narrow to accommodate two-way traffic, so until such time as the second parallel bridge was completed, it was necessary to wait up to an hour before the MPs switched the flow from one direction to the other.

  The members of the Heaven’s Devils didn’t care, though. It was early afternoon, the air was warm, and they were happy to sit around doing nothing as traffic rumbled over the bridge. The Devils had taken over what had once been a ground-floor office in a blown-out warehouse, and most of them had shed their suits. The single exception was Ward, who was waiting for Feek to run a diagnostic program on his armor. The rest of the Devils were lounging about as Speer strolled into the area.

  There were warm greetings as everyone gathered around to say hello to the civilian a few of them regarded as an unofficial member of the squad. And that was when Speer urged the group to step outside the shattered building for a group vidsnap.

  The Devils shuffled out and gathered in a loose formation, despite Speer’s protests to “Move closer,” “look alive,” and “please, work with me, here!” They were worn out, beat up, and, though in high spirits, a couple of them still had no patience for the reporter. As they turned out to face the camera, Harnack insisted on holding his flamethrower, Zander thought it would be funny to light a cigar off of it, and Kydd hid most of his face under a boonie hat and a pair of mirrorshades. Feek was there as well, perched on top of Ward’s gauss cannon, right behind Raynor and a bare-chested Tychus. Doc, who was high on crab, sat off to the side. “Got it!” Speer said brightly as he took the shot. “I’ll call it ‘the Devils take a break.’ Our viewers will love it. So, where are you headed next? Or is that classified?”