Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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

Polk’s Pride had once been the second largest city on Turaxis II, with a population of four million people and a thriving economy. Back before the wars, it had been famous for hundreds of man-made canals that not only gave the metropolis its special flavor, but fed barge traffic onto the heavily traveled river that meandered through the downtown area. In fact, the Paddick flowed for more than a thousand miles before eventually emptying into the planet’s single ocean.

By now, all but a few hundred thousand of Polk’s Pride’s population had been forced out into the countryside, where dozens of refugee camps were set up to accommodate them, and the city was split in two. For the moment the area north of the Paddick River was in Kel-Morian hands—and the Confederacy controlled everything south of it. But that was subject to change as the battle for the city seesawed back and forth.

As a result of the ongoing conflict, a mile-wide swath of land along both sides of the river lay in ruins. Buildings had been bombed into rubble, streets were filled with fallen debris, and once-picturesque canals were blocked by half-submerged wrecks.

Along the banks of the river the remains of the city’s once-graceful bridges could be seen. Each had been different, but beautiful in its own way, which was why they had been known as “The Seven Sisters.”

All of them were lying in the river now. There was always less flow at that time of year, so that, combined with a drought up north, had caused the water level to drop to a record low. But occasionally a pile of debris would build up behind one of the spans, only to be broken by the weight of the water behind it, thereby releasing a momentary flood. And there, mixed in with all of the other trash that regularly came their way, the people who lived downstream would find hundreds of half-rotted bodies.

It was a public health problem, not to mention a gruesome sight, so they tried to sort them out at first. The idea being to bury Kel-Morians with Kel-Morians and Confederates with Confederates, both because it was assumed the opposing armies would want it that way, and as a sort of insurance policy—it wasn’t clear which side was going to win and therefore be in charge. But as things turned out, there were far too many bodies for the civilians to deal with, which meant they were forced to inter the dead soldiers in mass graves.

Such was the landscape as Colonel Vanderspool led Lieutenant Sanchez and her platoon through the once thriving streets of south Polk’s Pride to the edge of no-man’s-land. The office tower that loomed above them was still largely intact even though Kel-Morian sloths located on the far side of the river routinely used it for target practice.

Broken glass crunched under Raynor’s boots as Harnack said, “Whoa … check that out,” and pointed upward. The back end of a Hellhound could be seen sticking out of an office on the fire-ravaged twenty-sixth floor. Raynor wondered if the dead pilot was still sitting in his cockpit or had been removed by a graves registration team.

There wasn’t any power in the building, so they had to climb nine flights of stairs to reach Vanderspool’s objective. Since the enemy was on the opposite side of the river, the men hadn’t been required to wear full combat armor, so they were relying on their own strength. Tychus, who had never seen Vanderspool do much more than strut around Fort Howe, was surprised to learn that the officer could climb nine stories without breaking a sweat.

Finally, a fire door with the number 9 on it appeared, and Vanderspool led the platoon down a hall and into a trash-strewn office. A squad of marines was there waiting for them. When Master Sergeant Rockwell hollered, “Atten-hut!” all of them crashed to attention.

Rockwell was a man with whom Raynor and Tychus were well acquainted. As the battalion’s senior NCO, Rockwell had a lot of power and liked to use it. And there was something about the Heaven’s Devils that cracked him off, so his hobby was coming up with shit details for Tychus and the squad to take care of.

And now, as Rockwell’s squad stood in perfect alignment, with their backs ramrod straight, they could have been awaiting inspection. That was over the top, even for marines, especially in a combat zone. And as Raynor examined them more closely, he saw that they all wore the same thousand-yard stares, perfect uniforms, and spit-shined boots. The whole thing made him uncomfortable.

“At ease,” Vanderspool said, as if he were used to being received in that fashion. He gestured to the view. “Do you see the tower over there on top of the hill? The tall, skinny one?”

Raynor peered out the window to see the hillside across the river—a bleak, seemingly deserted cluster of buildings—upon which lay a tower surrounded by high walls.

“That comsat station marks the location of the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository,” Vanderspool continued. “Down below it there is a network of tunnels and caves where stocks of rare minerals are stored. If we can capture or destroy the repository the KMs will have to shut down their factories north of the city, their military units will begin to run short of critical supplies within a matter of weeks, and we’ll be able to push the bastards off Turaxis II! So this is a very important push.”

The shattered windows offered Raynor an unobstructed view of no-man’s-land, the much-abused river, and north Polk’s Pride. Like the sky overhead, the area beyond the river was unrelievedly gray. A few buildings still stood. They looked like headstones in a sprawling graveyard. Thready columns of black smoke marked the spots where Kel-Morian soldiers were camped in the ruins, or stubborn citizens eked out a bleak existence in spite of repeated efforts to force them out.

“The repository is our target,” Vanderspool continued grimly. “But, as you can imagine, the structure is well protected. Which is why it’s still vertical in spite of more than two dozen air strikes.” At that point the officer handed his binoculars to Zander with an order to pass them around.

“You’ll notice that the comsat station is surrounded by circular blast walls and protected by dozens of computer-controlled missile turrets. More than that, all of the approaches are defended by goliaths, regular comsat sweeps, and a squad of rippers. So getting inside won’t be easy. Questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Sanchez replied. “How large a force are we going to throw at the objective?”

“You won’t be alone, of course,” Vanderspool continued. “The entire battalion plus elements from other units will take part in the attack. Sergeant Rockwell’s people are going in first… . That means the unit will probably suffer heavy casualties. But, no guts, no glory. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir!” Rockwell said emphatically. “What’s your mission, soldiers?” he called out.

All of the rangers knew that the first people to go in stood a very high chance of getting killed, but if the marines realized that, there was no sign of it on their faces as they responded to the noncom. “To die for the Confederacy!”

That was when Raynor remembered the program Brucker had mentioned and realized something… . Judging from what Tychus had told him about Lassiter, and seeing the marines in front of him, he knew the Kel-Morian overseer was correct. Certain people were being brainwashed. What did they call it? Resocial something? Resocialized. That was it. No, neurally resocialized, and in considerable numbers, too. Was that what Raynor was supposed to be fighting for? A society in which citizens were transformed into flesh-and-blood robots?

“Sanchez, you and your platoon will advance immediately behind them. That’s why you’re here. As I said, this is not going to be easy, so that’s why I’ve brought on the best of the best.”

Raynor began to wonder. What was up with Vanderspool anyway? Was he trying to win the wars? Or make general in record time? Or was he simply determined to give the KMs a good whupping? There was no way to be sure as the tactical aspect of the briefing began. There was a lot for the platoon to learn—and only a few days in which to learn it. The clock was ticking.

It was raining. Not hard, but persistently, so that as Raynor stood at the edge of the roof of the building in which the battalion was temporarily headquartered, the lunch he had brought up from the field kitchen below was starting to get damp. But he didn’t care. Because with the exception of four lookouts, two missile turrets, and the birds who wanted to share his food, the huge expanse of roof was a place where he could be alone for a few minutes. And even feel homesick if he wanted to.

Thirty minutes earlier he had placed a call to his parents on Shiloh. But then, even as the fone rang in his parents’ house, he had broken the connection. Because up until that point in his life he had never lied to them. Not about anything important anyway. So what would he say if his mother answered? That he’d lost track of how many people he’d killed? That he and his friends had stolen government property and sold it? That the money he sent them hadn’t been won playing cards? That he didn’t trust his commanding officer? No, he couldn’t tell his mother those things. And, if he didn’t tell, he’d have to make up lies to cover up the truth. So it would be wrong either way.

“What the hell are you doing up here, jerk weed?” Tychus demanded, as a heavy hand fell on Raynor’s shoulder. “We’ve been looking all over the place for you.”

Raynor turned to see that Tychus had Kydd, Harnack, Ward, and Zander with him.

Raynor sighed. “I’m eating lunch … or trying to.”

Tychus turned his face upward, blinked as the raindrops hit his eyes, and looked down again. “It’s raining.”

“Yes,” Raynor replied irritably. “I noticed. Was there something you people wanted to see me about?”

“Yeah, there was,” Tychus said, as he selected the larger half of the damp sandwich and took a bite. He was still chewing when he spoke. “The brass held a briefing for all of the junior officers and noncoms.”

“And?”

“And the assault is gonna be a total bitch,” Tychus said, as he eyed the other half of the sandwich. “They aren’t saying how we’re gonna cross the river, that’s top secret, but it sounds like they’re setting us up for an impossible mission.” He finished the rest of the sandwich with one bite. “Rockwell’s marines are gonna get massacred within seconds, you know that. And where does that leave us? Oh yeah, we’ll be right there behind ’em.”

“There’s something going on with Rockwell’s guys, I know it …” Kydd added darkly. “I think somebody’s been messing with their heads.”

“Yeah,” Raynor said. “I think so too. Brucker kept asking me questions about it. He called it ‘neural resocialization.’ Criminals are being experimented on at some facility—something about erasing their antisocial tendencies. He thinks a lot of them are serving in our armed forces.”

“Holy shit,” Harnack put in excitedly. “Remember the whackos on the Hydrus? The ones who tried to kick the crap out of us? Then, when we ran into them the night before graduation, they were like a bunch of schoolgirls. I bet they were resocialized.”

“And then there’s Sam Lassiter,” Tychus added. “They had that lunatic locked in a steel box at MCF-R-156 before he shanked a sergeant with a fork! Then, I’m walking across Fort Howe, and there he is! Just as nice as you please … and when I asked him how he got out of the facility, he didn’t even remember being there.”

“Bingo,” Zander said grimly. “It’s all starting to make sense.”

Raynor frowned. “So, what are you saying? That they’re going to use Rockwell’s troops as cannon fodder?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Tychus replied. “Once you cut through all the weasel-worded bullshit, it’s obvious that those poor bastards’ll be walking into a meat grinder. And guess how we’re going to become the great war heroes of the Confederacy? By following those fools right into a bloodbath and donating our bodies for fish food and fertilizer.”

“It’s almost as if Vanderspool wants us to get killed,” Ward observed.

Raynor opened the bag of chips and scattered them along the rail. Then, as the birds came fluttering in, he stood back to watch them peck at the unexpected bounty. “So, what’s the solution?”

“I figure we should hang back, let the resocs die for the Confederacy, and live to fight another day,” Tychus replied.

“They may be mind-zapped, but they aren’t dogs,” Raynor objected. “They’re people, just like you and me.”

“Are they?” Tychus inquired cynically. “You saw Rockwell’s guys. I’m not so sure.”

Raynor sighed. “If you’re done eating my lunch, let’s go inside. It’s raining out here.”

The cavernous high-speed tube station had once been the backbone of south Polk’s Pride. It boasted twelve parallel arrival and departure stations, plus an equal number of tracks, all accessed by escalators and bridges. The walls were covered with colorful murals, each of which was a landscape inspired by a different region, all harkening back to the days before the fighting. And unlike what Doc had seen earlier that day, the underground facility was untouched by the wars except for the fact that more than a thousand troops were housed in the vast lobby, the arcades located to either side of it, and the tunnels themselves.

Cave-ins, both accidental and intentional, meant that the underground tubes through which crowded trains once roared were silent now and home to nothing more than a few hardy eccentrics and a legion of flesh-eating rats. Animals that had grown fat on the dead bodies that littered the area bordering the river.

Cassidy shivered at the thought of them as she followed a frozen escalator down onto platform two, and from there out along an island of concrete toward the train that was parked next to it. A sign proclaimed that she was about to travel on the “Yellow Line,” which, had it been operational, would have carried her to Picket, Traverston, Oakwood, and the suburbs beyond.

Because the city was so crowded, there weren’t any open areas upon which a command center could be built. So Vanderspool had been forced to take up residence in the underground tube station.

A couple of marines were on sentry duty outside the train where his office was located. Cassidy immediately recognized them as belonging to the colonel’s newly created “color guard.” Though theoretically charged with protecting the battalion’s colors in battle, that was a largely ceremonial function, and no longer relevant to the way battles were being fought.

No, the real function of the platoon-size unit was to serve as Vanderspool’s personal bodyguards, both on and off the field of battle. And, judging from the intensity with which the men greeted her, the rumors were true. They were not only resocialized, they were willing converts, which was to say, fanatics. “Hold it right there,” a weasel-faced corporal said, with one hand on his sidearm. “This is a restricted area.”

“Yeah,” Doc replied, “I know. My name is Cassidy. Colonel Vanderspool sent for me.”

That was true, and a subject of some concern for the medic, since repeated trips to see Vanderspool would be noticed by Tychus and the rest. But only three days had passed since the battalion’s arrival and there hadn’t been any opportunity to set up an alternate system. “Scan her,” the noncom instructed, as he examined his Handheld Personal Information-Gathering and Navigation Unit, otherwise known as a Pig.

The scanner flicked across Doc’s eyes and she heard a soft beep. “Her name is Cassidy,” the second marine said, “and she’s a medic.”

“Roger that,” the corporal said evenly. Then, having turned his attention to Doc, his eyes narrowed. “You’re two minutes late, Petty Officer Cassidy. You can do better. Perfection is within our grasp.”

Doc eyed him emotionlessly. “Flick you, Corporal … and the private you rode in on.”

The resoc shook his head sadly, apparently unable to understand why she was so hostile, and stood to one side as the medic brushed past him and entered the streamlined car beyond.

The car’s interior was much as it had been before the wars, except for the fact that all of the seats had been torn out and replaced with mismatched office furniture salvaged from the surrounding office buildings. The same corporal who’d been in charge of Vanderspool’s office back at Fort Howe looked up from a tidy desktop. She nodded politely. “Have a seat… . The colonel’s meeting is running long. It should be over any minute now.”

Cassidy shot the cutesy, pug-nosed girl a fake smile and sat down on one of two chairs. Unlike the last time she had met with Vanderspool, her crab supply was sufficient to get her through the next few days. Then, with the new stuff that she was about to receive, Doc figured she’d have some cushion. And that would feel good.

“You can enter now,” the corporal said, as a well-dressed civilian left.

Cassidy said, “Thank you,” and made her way along the left side of the car. More than half its width had been walled off to create an office for Vanderspool. The door consisted of a curtain that was pushed to one side. Doc knocked on a side window, heard Vanderspool say, “Come!” and entered a long, narrow space with an executive-style desk at one end of it.

She was about to come to attention but Vanderspool waved the formality off. The officer was in his military mode, as was apparent from the fact that he addressed her as “Cassidy,” rather than “My dear.”

“Have a seat, Cassidy,” Vanderspool said, as he pointed at the chair in front of him. “I must say that I’ve been looking forward to this meeting. Having scanned all the after-action reports, I know Overseer Brucker was killed during the raid on KIC-36. What I don’t know is how he died. Did his heart fail? That’s what Sergeant Findlay told the debriefers. Or was there some other cause?”

Cassidy answered the question by giving Vanderspool a blow-by-blow account of Brucker’s death, starting with the leg wound, and finishing with the words she had whispered into his ear. “Damn!” Vanderspool responded happily. “I love it! I assumed you’d have to shoot him. Could you tell if he understood?”

Doc nodded. “There’s no doubt about it, sir… . His eyes bulged, and he tried to say something, just before his heart stopped.”

“Then it was a heart attack,” Vanderspool exclaimed. “Well done… . You saw those POWs. The bastard deserved it.”

Cassidy had to agree, although the message she’d been asked to deliver to the dead man made Vanderspool’s motive very clear—it wasn’t a desire to seek revenge on behalf of the prisoners, but for himself. Just how dirty is this guy? she wondered. Business deals with Kel-Morians, spying on his own battalion, resocialized marines popping up all over the goddamn place …

“Here you go,” Vanderspool said, as he opened a drawer and withdrew a small metal box. “It’s payday. But be careful,” the officer added, as he pushed the container across the surface of the desk. “I wouldn’t want you to die of an overdose.”

“Thank you, sir,” Doc said dryly, as she accepted the box and slipped it into a pocket. “Your concern is very touching.”

“Watch your mouth, Cassidy,” Vanderspool warned sternly. “And remember your place. You may be useful, but you’re a crab junkie nonetheless, and a disposable one at that. Now, what else do you have for me?”

Doc’s lips were suddenly dry and she ran her tongue across them. “It’s about Private Kydd, sir.”

Vanderspool frowned. “The sniper?”

“Yes, sir. The way I understand it, Kydd was at basic with Raynor and Harnack. Back then Kydd claimed to be a guy named Ark Bennet. According to the story he told people at the time, he was drugged and sold to a Marine Corps recruiter.”

Vanderspool’s eyebrows rose. “Did you say Bennet? As in Bennet Industries?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know anything about Bennet Industries—but I’m sure the name was Bennet. Anyway, when we came back from the raid on Brucker’s base, two MSS agents were waiting to interview Kydd. And later, after he returned to the barracks, he told Tychus that the agents were checking to see if he was Bennet.”

“And?”

“And he told them he wasn’t,” Cassidy continued. “Because somewhere along the line he changed his mind and wants to stay in the service.”

“So he is Bennet?”

“That’s what both Findlay and Raynor believe,” Doc reported. “I wasn’t sure whether the Kydd situation would be of interest to you. But I brought this along just in case.”

So saying, Cassidy removed a plastic-encased slide from her shirt pocket and placed it on the surface of the desk.

Vanderspool eyed the object as Doc pushed it toward him. “What have we here?”

“That’s a sample of Kydd’s DNA,” the medic replied simply. “I had to sample the entire squad in order to get it. They believe it’s part of a routine medical test.”

“You are a clever little bitch,” Vanderspool said appreciatively. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ve noticed that he has a thing for Sanchez … follows her around like a puppy dog.”

“Okay. The Kydd thing is intriguing though unimportant. Keep it to yourself, however… .” Vanderspool said, as he toyed with the test tube. “Dismissed.”

Doc rose, did an about-face, and left the officer. The session had gone well, all things considered, and she felt relieved.

As Doc left the car she was shocked to see Tychus standing on the platform waiting for her! Did he suspect? No, judging from the big smile on his face, Tychus had other things on his mind. “Hey, babe,” he said, as he draped a massive arm around her shoulders. “I heard you were here.”

“Yeah,” Doc replied. “You know how the personnel people are… . I had to sign some form or other … what a pain in the ass.”

“And that’s what I was thinking about,” Tychus said with a wicked grin. “Not the pain … the other part. Or both. What would you say to a first class dinner at my place—and a roll in the hay to follow?”

Cassidy gave him a back-handed blow to the gut. It was like hitting a rock. That was one of things she liked about Tychus. He was built, and in spite of what some people said, size matters. Or it did where she was concerned. So even if her relationship with Tychus wasn’t entirely of her own choosing, it was often pleasurable, and absolutely necessary. Due to the wars, crab was almost impossible to buy on the street anymore. She felt a strong desire to touch the metal box through her clothing, to confirm that it was there, but managed not to do so. “You don’t have a place,” Cassidy temporized. “Other than your bivvy bag, that is.”

“Oh, yes I do!” Tychus replied cheerfully. “Money talks… . I’m the proud owner of a utility closet. Complete with deep sink.”

“We’ll see how dinner goes,” Doc said. “Who knows? If you chew with your mouth closed you might get lucky. And stop that… . How many times have I told you? Don’t pat my ass in public!”

Tychus chuckled happily as he led her up a floor and through a confusing maze of hallways. Finally, having unlocked a door labeled maintenance, he stood to one side. As Doc entered the pitch-black, concrete room, Tychus aimed a flashlight at the mattress on the floor. “See?” Tychus said proudly, as he towed Cassidy over to the makeshift bed and pulled her down. “All the comforts of home.”

As Doc knelt on the mattress she saw that a bottle of Tychus’s favorite booze was sitting next to it. Normally her lover didn’t go in for much foreplay, but rather than simply grab her the way he usually did, Tychus surprised Cassidy by producing a box and shoving it her way. “Happy birthday, sexy, I hope this is okay.”

Doc stared in disbelief. Chocolates? Tychus wasn’t the kind of guy who bought a girl chocolates. Was she totally wrong about him? About all of this? She was shocked by a sudden swell of emotion; at once she felt sad, guilty, and completely undeserving of Tychus’s affection. Even so, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Not because she wanted to make love to him at that particular moment, but because of the tears that were trickling down her cheeks, and the opportunity to bury her face in his shoulder.