Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE CITY OF DARBY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Doc was naked and sitting astride Tychus as the knock came on the door. They were just back from a night on the town and were a little high. “Go away!” Tychus ordered in his best parade-ground voice, and reached up to cup Cassidy’s breasts.

“It’s Zander,” a muffled voice said, from out in the hall. “We got trouble, Sarge … big trouble.”

“Damn it to hell,” Tychus said irritably, as Doc swung a shapely leg over his torso. “What am I? A goddamned babysitter?”

Cassidy pouted as she pulled a blanket up around her shoulders. She poked her foot out and playfully traced Tychus’s thigh with her big toe as he bent over to put on his boxers. With lightning speed, he reached out, wrapped one hand around both her ankles and began to tickle her feet, his favorite part of her. In a fit of screams and giggles, she squirmed around on the bed, kicking out at Tychus until he let go.

“You stay put,” Tychus warned, pointing at Doc. “I’m not done with you.”

Cassidy twisted herself back into the blanket and rolled onto her side, biting her lip and smiling up at Tychus. Her eyes were so glazed over from the drugs, it looked as though they were twinkling.

“This better be important,” Tychus said, as he made his way toward the door. “Because if it isn’t I’m going to rip your head off and use it as a spittoon.” Tychus thumbed the lock, opened the door, and frowned.

Zander was not only soaking wet, but supporting Kydd, who had a gash on the side of his head.

“What the hell happened to you two?”

“Sorry, Sarge,” Zander said apologetically, his eyes darting quickly from Tychus’s scant clothing to the tousled bed behind him. “Hey, Doc,” he said with a slight wave. The medic smiled and offered a half-assed salute.

“It’s bad, Tychus,” Zander continued in a hushed voice. “We overheard Vanderspool talking to Ryk’s dad. We’re talking Errol Bennet here—the head of an Old Family. They’re planning some big heist, and we’re right in the middle of it.

Tychus quickly ushered the guys into the room and glanced both ways to be sure the hallway was empty. He locked the door behind him. Zander wasn’t one to exaggerate, so Tychus knew something serious had gone down.

“We fell into the lake,” Zander continued. “Kydd has a gash on his head—he’s bleeding, as you can see, and I didn’t know where to take him. I don’t know who else is in on this.”

Tychus glanced at Kydd, who was trembling and drained of color, and seemed completely detached. “Hey, Doc! Get up,” Tychus said gruffly. “You got a cut to tend to.”

Doc was zoned out. Zander watched her slide off the bed and liked what he saw. But Tychus was right there so he had to avert his eyes as Cassidy rearranged the blanket prior to making her way over to a corner and rummaging through the pile of gear stored there. “Get him out of those wet clothes,” she ordered. “And get some hot caff from room service.”

Five minutes later a mostly clad Cassidy was there to clean Kydd’s cut and apply a plastiscab bandage. “Sorry your scar won’t be as ugly as the one Tychus has,” she said, “but you can try again later.”

Kydd’s eyes were still a bit dull, but he wasn’t shaking anymore, thanks to the bedspread that was wrapped around him. Room service arrived moments later, and if the bellman was surprised at the unusual scene inside, he showed no sign of it as Zander gave him a large tip.

Then, with both Zander and Kydd sipping hot drinks, it was time for them to share their story. Zander launched the narrative, but seconds later a heavyhearted Kydd began to chime in. Tychus grabbed a bottle of whiskey and dumped a generous dollop into Kydd’s drink; the booze took effect quickly and Kydd’s somber story soon transformed into an explosive, furious rant about his father. “The bastard disowned me,” Kydd said bitterly. “And he totally sold me out! But that’s not all… . He’s part of a plot to make us steal a billion dollars’ worth of ardeon crystals and then resocialize us! Turns out my father is a greedy scumbag! I’m going AWOL while I still can.”

Tychus sat sprawled on a reclining chair, still clad in nothing more than a pair of boxers. “Like hell you will,” he said, as he removed the stogie from his mouth long enough to blow some ashes off his massive chest. “You want to put it to the old man? Well, the best way to accomplish that is to take what he values the most … his money.” He took a deep swig out of the bottle.

It took Kydd a moment to absorb what Tychus was saying, but once he understood, a smile appeared on his face. “I like it, Sarge!” he said. “I like it a lot.”

“Good,” Tychus said grimly. “When the hell is Jim getting here?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Kydd replied. “And what about the rest of the squad?”

“I can see Harnack signing on to just about anything,” Zander replied, “and Ward will agree so long as he gets to kill some Kel-Morians.”

“All right, Zander, you be in charge of rounding everyone up. Once Jim arrives we’ll bang out a plan,” Tychus said. “It’ll be fekkin’ beautiful. Vanderspool won’t know what hit him, and your pop’ll be cryin’ into his soup while we make off with his blood money.” He looked back at Doc, who was propped against the headboard with her knees drawn up, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. He turned toward Zander and Kydd. “Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, please get the hell out of my room.”

THE CITY OF DARBY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

It was approximately 0900, and a misty rain was falling, as Doc slipped out of the hotel and into a hovercab. She took a hit of crab to steady her nerves.

The Mondoro Hotel was located at the very top of the terraced hill, where its guests could enjoy sweeping views of the lake below. So it took a while for the cab to make its way to the top, where it settled in under a formal portico, and a uniformed doorman hurried out to greet Cassidy.

A couple of dozen steps took her through a pair of sliding glass doors and into a sumptuous lobby. It was decorated with Talvarian marble and beautifully upholstered furniture, all of which was positioned around a fountain and tiled pool.

House fones were positioned here and there, so Doc chose one next to a comfortable chair, and put the receiver to her ear. Once the operator responded, she asked to be connected with Colonel Vanderspool’s room, and the fone started to ring a few seconds later. Her heart was pounding. It took the officer a long time to answer, and when he finally did, he sounded groggy. “Yes?”

“This is Petty Officer Third Class Cassidy,” Doc said. “I’m down in the lobby.”

A moment of silence passed before Vanderspool spoke again. He was clearly angry. “How the hell did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Cassidy answered honestly. “I went to the reception desk where I’m staying and asked the clerk for the name of the most expensive hotel in Darby.”

Vanderspool swore. “Okay, damn it … what do you want? If you’re out of crab that’s too bad. Maybe you can steal some money from Findlay.”

“No,” Doc replied levelly, “I’m not out of crab. And I don’t plan to be out of crab ever again. I have some very valuable information, and I expect to be paid for it.”

“Oh, really?” Vanderspool responded sarcastically. “What? You found out where Findlay keeps his cigars?”

“I know who you met with last night,” Doc replied, suddenly breathless. “And I know what you plan to steal—and how you intend to do it.”

There was a long pause before Vanderspool spoke. There was no sign of grogginess now. “I’m in room 804. Come on up.” There was a loud click as the connection was broken.

Doc smiled thinly as she stood, paused to examine herself in a full-length mirror, and straightened her clothes. Then, having shakily applied some lip-gloss, she made her way toward the elevators. Her knees felt weak, but she managed a steady stride.

As she walked, the image she’d been trying to avoid crept into her thoughts. Tychus—dead, disfigured, or worse, resocialized. As she entered the elevator, she shook the image out of her head and took another generous hit of crab. She felt for Tychus, in a primitive, selfish way—it felt good to be close to him at the end of the day. It made her feel less lonely.

But she knew Tychus would eventually dump her for someone else; they always did, and he, more than anyone, wasn’t the kind of guy who would stick around. She had to think of herself this time, and she wanted to be on the winning team. Vanderspool had the military apparatus to secure a victory, and could pay her enough to keep a solid stash of crab for a long time to come.

But the rest of the guys … they were her comrades, and it pained her to think that she was sealing their fate. So she closed her eyes as the drug flooded her brain, and felt thankful that she didn’t have to think at all.

SOMEWHERE OVER KEL-MORIAN–HELD TERRITORY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The dropship made a droning sound and threw a dark shadow down to caress the land below as it entered Kel-Morian-controlled airspace. It had been three days since Raynor was released from the stockade and had gone down to meet his friends in Darby. The news that Vanderspool planned to use Heaven’s Devils to steal a load of ardeon crystals and resocialize them should have come as a tremendous shock. But after everything he’d been through, and in light of Vanderspool’s efforts to have remote-controlled lockup switches installed in the unit’s suits, Raynor was anything but surprised.

Nor had he offered any objections to the plan that Tychus put forward. Because with the exception of a scattering of officers like Sanchez, it was obvious that the entire command structure was made up of thieves who were working for thieves. And that was true of both sides of the conflict. So if there was a chance to steal from the thieves—then Raynor was happy to take part. And leave the military behind in the process.

All of the dropships were painted to look like Kel-Morian transports, and equipped with transponders and codes supplied by Vanderspool’s Kel-Morian friend. Raynor knew he should be worried, because Tychus claimed the scheme was foolproof, and the other man was better known for impulsive reactions than carefully thought out plans. But Raynor had to admit that the scenario was pretty straightforward, and simple plans usually worked best.

Having used Tychus’s connections to set up a sale of the ardeon crystals, all the Devils had to do was intervene at the right moment and load their ill-gotten loot onto one of the dropships. Then, rather than fly back to Confederate-held territory, they would put down in Free Port, a loosely governed city that sat astride the divide between Confederate and Kel-Morian territory. That was where the final transaction would take place.

Once in Free Port, and flush with money, it would be possible to take on new identities and book passage off planet. Not on a liner, since they didn’t serve Turaxis II anymore, but on a freighter. According to Tychus there were always captains willing to make some extra money carrying passengers the owners weren’t necessarily aware of.

Raynor’s thoughts were interrupted as Tychus came shuffling down the center aisle. The noncom was wearing what appeared to be Kel-Morian armor and a shit-eating grin that was visible through an open visor. “So, soldier,” he said in an attempt to imitate a gung-ho Quigby-type officer. “Are you ready to give your life for the Confederacy?”

“Yes, I am,” Raynor grated. “Right after I give yours.”

That got a laugh from those seated close enough to hear. “That’s the spirit!” Tychus said cheerfully. “Your parents would be proud.”

No they wouldn’t, Raynor thought, as the dropship droned on. They wouldn’t even recognize what their son has become.

The resocialized marines sat facing one another, eyes to the front, and backs to the bulkhead as the second dropship skimmed over the countryside below. Vanderspool sat just aft of the cockpit. It felt good to know that the marines would do whatever they were told without asking a single question. And if that meant they got killed, then so be it. Because they were criminals and sociopaths who had no place in decent society anyway.

As the pilot’s voice sounded in his helmet and the ship began to circle Korsy’s tiny starport, Vanderspool was under no illusions. He and his troops would have to fight in order to take control of both the city and the train station. Fortunately the town wasn’t that large and the opposition was going to consist of Kel-Morian guards who were paid to keep the local workers in line. The inhabitants were citizens of the Confederacy mostly, who had been captured when the KMs took over, and forced to work in factories and food processing plants.

But Vanderspool knew it would be a mistake to underestimate the Kel-Morians, who were bound to be well-armed. The key was to drop in unexpectedly, take their leadership out as quickly as possible, and hit the rest of them hard.

Such were Vanderspool’s thoughts as the ship flared in for a landing and the ramp went down. He made eye contact with Lieutenant Fitz, the officer in command of the resocialized marines, and the other man nodded. His people were ready. All of them were equipped with black armor so that anyone who saw them would assume they were Kel-Morian troops.

Confident that everything was proceeding according to plan and that there weren’t any hostile troops waiting for him below, Vanderspool made his way down the ramp and onto the tarmac. His visor was open so he could see the lead gray sky, the fuel tanks located a few hundred feet beyond the starport, and the factories beyond. Meanwhile, other dropships were landing further out.

A jitney had pulled away from the low-lying terminal building and was coming out to meet him. That was to be expected, given the circumstances, and Vanderspool waited patiently as the vehicle drew up and two men hopped out. They wore black berets, mismatched uniforms, and symbols of rank Vanderspool had never seen before. Were they mercenaries? Or the equivalent of prison guards?

The one on the left was tall and thin. He had heavy brows, half-lidded eyes, and prominent cheekbones. The other man was of average height and equipped with a bulbous nose covered with a tracery of broken veins. And, judging from his expression, he was upset. “Who are you?” he demanded aggressively, as his eyes roamed Vanderspool’s armor, searching for some sign of the Kel-Morian unit to which the visitor belonged. “Why wasn’t I informed that you were coming?”

“My name is Stokes,” the Confederate officer lied. “And you are?”

“Overseer Dankin,” the man replied. “I am in charge of both the starport and the town of Korsy.”

“Excellent,” Vanderspool said cheerfully, as he brought a gauss pistol out from behind his back and shot Dankin between the eyes. “You’re just the man I’m looking for.”

The second Kel-Morian flinched as a look of surprise appeared on Dankin’s face and he fell over backward. The flat crack of the report sent a flock of birds up off the starport’s control tower, where they circled for a moment before landing again. The empty casing pinged as it bounced off the tarmac.

Vanderspool’s pistol was aimed at the other man by then. The Kel-Morian’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Vanderspool smiled engagingly. “I could use a guide… . Would you be interested in the job?”

The security officer nodded jerkily.

“Perfect,” Vanderspool said. “Please be so kind as to surrender your sidearm and tell me all about the town of Korsy.”