Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MILITARY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY-R-156, ON THE PLANET RAYDIN III

The day began as it always did with the harsh sound of the Klaxon that signaled when to get up, when to eat, and when to do everything else of any importance. That was followed by the sound of Sergeant Bellamy’s belligerent voice as he entered Barracks #3. “Hit the floor! This ain’t no flickin’ resort. That includes you, Sergeant Findlay …” he mocked. “Get your ass in gear.”

Yeah, rub it in, you waste of life. The day you actually see combat is the day you can shit on my parade.

Bellamy made it a point to broadcast daily that Tychus wasn’t a sergeant anymore. He’d been demoted to private the day he had appeared at the summary court-martial, and been sentenced to three months’ hard labor.

Tychus’s feet were sticking out over the end of the steel-frame bed, and he was in the process of pulling them in when the swagger stick struck. The blow hurt. Tychus swore and Bellamy grinned. “How ’bout it? Have you had enough? Is today the day? You can take me… . So have at it.”

Bellamy was a small man, commonly referred to as “the runt” behind his back, and eternally on the lookout for opportunities to impose his will on the larger prisoners, Tychus being his favorite target. He was dressed in a parade ground–perfect uniform, his nose plugs were dangling on the front of his chest, and his right hand rested on the swagger stick that was clenched under his arm.

Back during the Roman Empire on Old Earth, swagger sticks had been functional implements that were used to direct military maneuvers or to administer physical punishments, but they had long since become symbolic in nature. Some officers and noncoms continued to carry them, especially those who were insecure, and Bellamy fit the pattern. His was a handmade affair carved out of highly polished wood with silver caps at both ends. Bellamy stuck his jaw out as if inviting Tychus to take a swing at it. An offense that could double the prisoner’s sentence.

Tychus was on his feet by that time. He knew that Bellamy’s comments were intended to provoke a violent reaction so he would receive an even harsher sentence. But more than that, Bellamy was trying to intimidate the other prisoners by demonstrating his mastery of a much larger man. “Thanks for the invite,” Tychus rumbled, “but I think I’ll pass.” You rat-faced sonofabitch.

Bellamy grinned. “Life sucks, doesn’t it, Findlay? You’re damned if you do—and damned if you don’t. But one thing’s for sure … if you aren’t dressed and present for muster in ten minutes, you’ll be hauling the cart today … and all by yourself.”

Tychus sighed. It was all part of the game. A game Tychus himself had found great pleasure in playing—on the other side of the field, of course. He knew the key was to stay cool, and never react. I’d like to see you haul that cart, you twitchy little rodent, Tychus thought, but didn’t bat an eye as Bellamy studied him, frowning.

While Bellamy had been messing with him, the other prisoners had been busy hitting the sonic showers. Now it was impossible for him to shave, shower, and be ready for inspection in ten minutes. So he took the only course open to him. “That sounds good, Sergeant … I could use a good workout.”

None of the prisoners who were in earshot were foolish enough to laugh, but there were plenty of grins, as they hurried to get ready.

Tychus was two minutes late when he left the barracks, accepted a nose-hose and an air bottle from a private and put the rig on. Bellamy was waiting, and wasted little time announcing that because of his late arrival, Tychus would have to haul the cart all by himself. But since most of the prisoners already knew about the punishment, the gasps of astonishment the noncom had been hoping for weren’t forthcoming.

Once the roll had been called and the inspection was over, the prisoners were marched across what had originally been a parking lot before the Confederacy had acquired the rock quarry from its owners for use as Military Correctional Facility-R-156. There were twenty-three prisoners representing the marines, rangers, and the fleet.

The low, one-story kitchen and attached mess hall had originally been built for use by the quarry’s employees, who presumably enjoyed better food than the crap the prisoners ate every day. On that particular morning the entrée was generally referred to as SS. That stood for “squib special,” which consisted of dried meat drenched in a watery gravy, served on a piece of soggy toast.

It was disgusting, but given the lack of other options, plus the heavy labor that was expected of them, the prisoners had no choice but to choke the salty mess down and chase it with massive quantities of water. And that, according to a medic who had been sent to R-156 for going AWOL, was a deliberate strategy to prevent hyperthermia.

A lot of fuel was required to power his big body, so Tychus ate his share and accepted donations from others. He had just gobbled his last bite when the Klaxon sounded and it was time to follow the other prisoners outside, where Bellamy ordered them to form a column of twos and led them up a switchbacking road.

The noncom was jogging, so the prisoners were forced to do likewise, and to Bellamy’s credit he was in good shape. So much so that he ran backward part of the way, swagger stick clamped under his arm, yelling cadence as he did so.

Five minutes later they arrived on a level area where two of the trucks used to haul rocks down to the flatlands were parked. The quarry was located at the end of a narrow canyon with steep slopes on three sides. The process of mining the rock was primitive, to say the least—Tychus figured the added danger was part of the punishment. Explosives were used to separate tons of rock from the mountain above. Then more explosives were used to make the big pieces smaller before they were loaded into the cart, which was emptied into one of the waiting trucks.

But before the grueling process could begin, it was first necessary to fall in for another head count. And while that was taking place, Tychus knew the rest of the prisoners were looking at the rusty metal box that was sitting in front of them—and thinking about the man locked inside. When Sergeant Bellamy opened the box, would Sam Lassiter be alive or dead?

Lassiter had been sentenced to serve five days in the cargo container for spitting in Bellamy’s face. Of course Bellamy had “boxed” prisoners for less serious infractions. And being boxed for more than a day or two was usually a death sentence. Especially given the cold nights and the fact that Bellamy provided the subjects of his wrath with only ninety-five percent of the supplemental oxygen they needed to stay alive. But Lassiter had already been locked away for three days, and some of the prisoners thought he might even make it to four. Tychus wondered when it would be his turn; Bellamy had threatened him on plenty of occasions, and it was only a matter of time before he followed through.

The steel container was eight feet high, four feet wide, and eight feet long. It was furnished with a single blanket, a pail to crap in, and a plastic jug full of water. Food was delivered twice a day via a narrow slot. As Bellamy unlocked the door, Tychus knew what the noncom wanted to see, which was a body lying on the floor. Because if Lassiter died inside the box, it would prove that prisoners couldn’t beat the system or Bellamy, assuming there was a difference.

Rusty metal squealed in protest as Bellamy stood to one side and pulled the door open. That was when the prisoners saw Lassiter. He was not only alive, but crouched over a pail, with his pants down around his ankles. “What’s wrong with you perverts?” he croaked. “Give a guy some privacy.”

All fear of Bellamy was momentarily forgotten as the prisoners broke into laughter and the noncom slammed the door and locked it. Then, having turned his back to the box, Bellamy glared at the now silent prisoners. “Okay, girls, the fun is over. There’s a pile of rocks waiting for you—”

That was when Lassiter shoved his hand out through the food slot, got a grip on Bellamy’s belt, and jerked the sergeant up against the door. The prisoner stabbed the noncom through the slot with his breakfast fork. He was still at it, plunging the tines in again and again, as Bellamy yelped, and the guards broke the sergeant free.

“You’ll pay for this!” Bellamy raged, as a corporal kneeled down beside him, cut his shirt away, and slapped a plastiscab over the bloody puncture wounds.

Judging from the amount of blood, Tychus figured it would take more than a bandage to close up Bellamy’s wounds. He smiled and silently thanked Lassiter for brightening his day.

“I wonder where they’re taking him,” Tychus inquired of no one in particular.

“I hear they have a special place for guys like Lassiter,” the man standing next to Tychus said. “A place where they can get inside your head and screw around with it.”

“I don’t know what they’re gonna find in there,” Tychus replied unsympathetically. “But they got their work cut out for ’em.”

The prisoners watched calmly as armed guards wrestled Lassiter to the ground. He was yelling unintelligibly, growling, and snapping his teeth as they shackled his wrists. Once he was restrained, they took him by the elbows and led him down the road.

Lassiter jerked his arms away and proceeded to walk under his own power. He had a thatch of unruly hair, many days’ worth of stubble on his face, and wore the filthy remnants of a uniform. But in spite of all that, there was something regal about his bearing. You are a truly magnificent sonofabitch, Tychus thought.

Next came Bellamy, who limped along with the help of a guard until a groundcar swung by to pick him up. Tychus lifted his face toward the bright sky, closed his eyes, and smiled. He was sure that Bellamy’s absence would take him off the hook where the cart was concerned.

“Fall out and take a short bio break before proceeding up the slope,” Corporal Carter ordered. “Findlay, prepare to haul the cart.” Damn. The peon had his orders and was determined to enforce them.

That was when Tychus spotted Bellamy’s precious swagger stick lying on the ground in front of the steel box. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, so no one had noticed it.

Tychus knelt next to the stick and pretended to tie his boot lace as he scooped it up. One end went up his pant leg, the other into the top of his boot. Then, having secured his prize, it was time to head uphill.

With the single exception of Tychus the prisoners were herded past the wooden ramp upon which the cart sat, and up to the big pile of broken rocks that awaited them. Tychus was ordered to tow the cart up the incline so the others could load it.

The air was beginning to warm up a bit by then, so Tychus stripped down to the waist before making his way over to the dented cart. Coffinlike, it sat on parallel tracks and weighed three or four hundred pounds. Normally two or even three prisoners were assigned to haul the container up the five-percent grade, so Tychus knew it wouldn’t be easy.

But faced with a choice to either ask for help or fail a test of strength, he was determined to succeed. So, taking hold of the thick rope used to pull the cart uphill, he passed it over one massive shoulder and leaned forward. With nothing else to do for the moment, guards and prisoners alike stopped to watch.

Tychus’s shoulders were nearly forty inches across, and as he put his head down and began to pull, the onlookers could see cord-like muscles ripple as metal squealed and the cart’s wheels began to turn. Steps had been cut into the rocky slope, and rather than think about the amount of weight he was pulling, Tychus focused on the placement of his feet instead. One foot, and then the other, each taking him closer to his goal. Finally, to the accompaniment of light applause, he made it to the top, where a lever-operated metal plate came up to block the cart’s rear wheels.

Not even Corporal Carter questioned Tychus’s right to take a break as chunks of granite were loaded into the metal box, the first truck was backed into place, and the brake lever was thrown. The track rattled noisily as the load sped downhill, slammed into a pair of stops, and tilted forward. The rocks made a hollow booming sound as they landed in the truck. Then, with that accomplished, it was time to repeat the whole process again. And so it went as Tychus and the cart made four additional trips up the slope before the Klaxon sounded and it was time for a box lunch that consisted of soggy sandwiches, a cup of fruit, and an energy bar that most of the prisoners saved for later.

Unfortunately, Bellamy arrived along with the meal. He was seemingly none the worse for wear in the wake of Lassiter’s attack, and immediately began to prowl the area, looking for things to complain about.

But as Tychus chewed and watched Bellamy’s movements, he thought he saw a pattern. The runt wasn’t just wandering around—he was looking for his stick! Because if he announced that the implement was missing, and one of the prisoners came across it, Bellamy knew it would be destroyed. Especially given how many people had been hit with it. Tychus could feel the sore spot where the damned thing had been rubbing his leg and couldn’t resist a grin. Here at least was something to enjoy.

Exactly thirty minutes after the lunch break had begun, it was over. Then it was back to work, with Bellamy in charge this time, constantly shouting insults at Tychus.

For his part Tychus was starting to tire. What had been difficult earlier was nearly impossible now. His feet felt as though they were made of lead, time seemed to slow, and it became more difficult to breathe even though he was still receiving supplemental oxygen through the nose-hose. “What’s the matter, Sergeant?” Bellamy scoffed, from two feet away. “Is the workout you wanted too much for you? How ’bout I give the job to someone else? All you have to do is ask.”

Tychus couldn’t reply—there wasn’t enough extra energy for that—so he kept on going as Bellamy walked along next to him. Finally he heard a clank as the metal plate came up to block the wheels, and Tychus knew that particular journey was over.

Tychus felt slightly dizzy, not to mention thirsty, but knew it was important to focus. Would Bellamy see the bait? And if he did, would it be possible to engineer the rest of the plan? The answer came quickly.

“Hey, Sarge,” Carter called out. “Look down there … between the tracks and about halfway up the slope… . Is that your swagger stick?”

Tychus followed the pointing finger and was satisfied with what he saw. Having been surreptitiously washed off during the lunch break, the swagger stick was easy to see and Bellamy immediately set off to retrieve it. Tychus waited for the noncom to take half a dozen steps, saw him step between the tracks, and shouted, “No!” But the noise of the machinery operating nearby drowned him out, as he lunged forward, appearing concerned for Bellamy’s safety. A carefully targeted hip bumped into the prisoner in charge of the brake lever. He fell against the handle, there was a clang as the plate fell, and the cart began to roll.

Bellamy was bending over the swagger stick by then. He looked up in response to the ominous rattling from above. That was when he threw up his hands as if to stop the steel box, realized his mistake, and turned to jump clear. But there wasn’t enough time. His throaty scream was cut short by a meaty thump, as metal met flesh and Bellamy was sucked under the cart and split into three chunks of bloody meat.

Everyone was in shock, including Corporal Carter, who feared that he might be blamed for the accident. Rather than go after Tychus, who had been heard shouting a warning, the noncom chose to blame the hapless brake operator for throwing the brake handle. He was sentenced to five days in the box but lasted only two. It was, as Tychus put it, “a damned shame.”