Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  “Who will be there?” Ark asked as the light changed and the convoy continued.

  “Representatives from the various families, as I told you before,” his father replied. “We compete with each other, but we must cooperate as well, or risk tearing the system apart.”

  By “system,” Ark knew his father meant the interlocking relationships between the Old Families, the government, and the public. All of which struck him as intensely boring. The prospect of going to meetings every day, of trying to figure out what each attendee’s true motives were, building alliances, executing strategies, cutting costs, and boosting profits filled him with dread. Surely there was something more to life?

  “I want you to pay very close attention today,” Errol added. “I can’t have you appearing ignorant in front of my associates because you can’t be bothered to listen.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The convoy had turned into the campus by then, having been forced to pause in front of a heavily fortified gate, prior to being allowed to proceed. The university was a private institution that owed its existence to the largess of families like the Bennets and was more than happy to provide the ruling oligarchy with a place to meet. Ten minutes later the vehicles were parked in an underground garage, where they would remain until the conference came to an end.

  Ark accompanied his father upstairs, where the senior Bennet was quickly surrounded by well-wishers, oily enemies, and hopeful sycophants. He nodded to Ark, who smiled in return before going off to find his seat. It was as one would expect for a person of low status, high up and in the very back row.

  The Hall of Reason was circular in shape, which some wags claimed was a pun, foisted on the unsuspecting university by a cynical architect. Ark was impressed by the soaring domed ceiling and the unconventional manner in which the tiered seats were wrapped around the speaker’s platform. Once the opening ceremonies were over, Ava Holt, the rather dowdy matriarch of Holt Enterprises, rose to introduce Ark’s father.

  The crowd rose to applaud Errol Bennet and continued to clap as he mounted the platform. The businessman gave Holt a hug and motioned for the audience to sit down. Bennet began his remarks by reiterating the need for harmony and what he called “an obligation to provide the Confederacy with support and guidance.”

  That’s how the process was explained in all the textbook digi-tomes that Ark and millions of other students had been exposed to in school. The Old Families were expected to provide the democratically elected government with advice that it could accept or reject.

  But, as the meeting continued, Ark was reminded that the reality of the situation was quite different. Especially when it came time for his father to address the Guild Wars. “The conflict with the Kel-Morian Combine has been very profitable by any measure,” Errol Bennet intoned, as the platform under his feet slowly rotated.

  “Those who manufacture uniforms, body armor, weapons, ammunition, vehicles, tanks, aircraft, naval vessels, communications systems, orbital defense platforms, and all of the other countless items supplied to our military forces have profited from the war. That includes every family represented in this room, although I’m sure every single one of us regrets the terrible cost borne by the Confederacy’s brave soldiers, and by their families.”

  That was true, the families had profited handsomely, and Bennet’s summary brought the representatives to their feet. The noise was thunderous, but as Ark clapped his hands, he wondered what the audience was applauding. The money they had made? Or the “brave soldiers” his father had referred to? Especially since none of his privileged friends were planning to join the military.

  “But regrettable though it is, the conflict has had the effect of bringing our population together,” Errol Bennet continued as the representatives took their seats. “And,” he added, “to the extent that the UNN spends its time covering battles, it’s not talking about us!”

  That got a laugh, and it was supposed to, since all of those present had to contend with the press corps’s eternal eagerness to run stories about the Old Families. A lot of it was society fluff focused on who was engaged to whom, coming out parties, and the like. But there were serious pieces, too, many of which were focused on allegations that certain officials were becoming rich by taking money from the Old Families in return for no-bid government contracts, favorable regulations, and a host of tax breaks. The stories were annoying, and potentially dangerous to the status quo, which everyone in the room had reason to protect.

  Now Ark was beginning to understand why his mother hadn’t wanted him to attend the meeting and why his father had insisted that he do so. Lisa Bennet wanted her son to pursue an academic career both as a way to “give something back,” as she put it, and to insulate him from the family’s financial dealings.

  But his father wasn’t having any of that. “We need both an heir and a spare,” Errol Bennet had said. “After all, what if something were to happen to Tara?”

  Which was fine, except that Ark didn’t want to be a “spare.”

  Such were the young man’s thoughts as Errol Bennet surrendered the platform to a guest speaker, who launched into what promised to be a very boring lecture on the need to raise colonial property taxes even higher so as to better recover the cost of military protection. Because on a per capita basis it was more expensive to defend a sparsely settled fringe world than a densely populated planet like Tarsonis. A perspective that was likely to find plenty of support from those in the chamber.

  As the talk began, Ark got up from his seat and made his way downstairs. A quick check confirmed that his father’s bodyguards were nowhere to be seen. That made sense, given all of the security in place around the university, and the fact that Errol Bennet could summon them within a matter of seconds if necessary.

  So it was easy to slip out for a breath of fresh air. Getting back in would be a lot more difficult, of course, but Ark had plenty of ID, so there was no reason to be concerned. Having departed the carefully manicured campus, Ark felt his heart begin to beat faster, as he slipped into the city he viewed from afar each morning.

  There were risks associated with what he was doing, Ark knew that, but the danger of walking the streets alone was far outweighed by the pleasure of doing so. Besides, Ark intended to limit himself to no more than an hour of stolen freedom before returning to the university.

  Gradually, as the young man put some distance between himself and the campus, the upscale housing that bordered the university gave way to tenand fifteen-story apartment buildings. They were part of a working-class neighborhood called Hacker’s Flat. The name that harkened back to an era when the area had been home to a number of farms.

  Most of the street-level space was taken up by family-run bodegas that sold everything from deep-fried meat pies to high-end electronics. At least some of which were probably stolen. The sidewalks were cracked, the side passageways reeked of urine, and every accessible surface was covered with multiple layers of graffiti.

  Lots of people were out and about, as was a small array of roving robots, each of which was equipped with a small holoprojector and enough artificial intelligence to match advertisements to the person it was pitching to. So it wasn’t unusual to see an Advertising Artificial Intelligence that looked like a sonic clothes cleaner morph into a scantily clad young woman as it dashed across the street to present a different message to a businessman.

  So during the time it took Ark to walk a block he was approached by what appeared to be a five-foot-tall tube of underarm deodorant, a man who wanted him to “answer a few questions,” and a nonprofit AAI looking for a donation. The machines were annoying, but he easily avoided them by circling around them and continuing on his way.

  Ground transportation consisted of everything from powered speed skates to much-abused cabs and delivery trucks. They were often double-parked and subject to fines levied by an armada of traffic sensor feeds.

  Ark estimated that he was less than a mile from the university at that point, b
ut realized he had never ventured that far into the city without an armed escort before. So, just to make sure he had his bearings, Ark paused to bring up a street map on his fone. He took comfort from the icon that marked his position within the Hacker’s Flat grid—and the knowledge that a couple of leftor right-hand turns would take him back to the university. After a quick look around to compare his surroundings to the image on his fone, Ark put the device back into his pocket.

  It was a small thing. One that would have been completely unremarkable had it taken place within the context of a fashionable sky mall, but took on special meaning on the grimy streets of Tarsonis, where predators were eternally on the lookout for anything that might identify a possible victim. Such as a map.

  Three locals took notice of the young man’s moment of uncertainty, plus the fancy jacket he was wearing, but only one of them chose to follow up. Her name was Camy. She had long black hair, doelike eyes that looked even larger thanks to a generous application of makeup, and a pouty mouth. Camy’s breasts were too large to be real, and were only barely contained by a leather vest that was cut in at her waist and decorated with silver ornaments. The girl’s matching pants were so tight, they looked as if they had been sprayed onto her long, tapered legs. Ankle-high boots completed the outfit, and made a sharp rapping sound as Camy passed her prospective mark, and provided him an excellent opportunity to appreciate her shapely behind.

  Having arrived at the next corner a good fifteen seconds ahead of the unsuspecting teenager, Camy examined a scrap of paper and frowned before shoving it back into her purse. As the young man arrived she turned and smiled. “Excuse me … I think I’m lost. Could you tell me how to get to the nearest bus station?”

  “Yes,” the mark said agreeably, “I think I can,” and brought out his fone.

  That would have been enough for a snatch-and-sprint artist, who would have been half a block away in a matter of seconds, soon to disappear into a maze of passageways. But Camy couldn’t run in her high-heeled boots, and was after a bigger prize, although the mark’s top-of-the-line fone might wind up in her purse as well. So as he brought the map up and began to scroll, Camy allowed her arm to touch his, and knew that her perfume was sure to reach his nostrils.

  “Thank you so much!” Camy said gratefully, as the fone went back into her mark’s pocket. “I was lucky to run into someone who knows the area so well.”

  “Not that well,” the young man confessed modestly. “I’m a stranger here, too.”

  “Really?” Camy inquired, as her big brown eyes flirted with his. “Then I guess you wouldn’t be able to recommend a restaurant. It’s almost noon and I’m hungry.”

  Though no expert where young women were concerned, Ark knew an opening when he heard one, and was quick to respond. “I’m quite hungry myself… . There’s got to be a restaurant around here. Perhaps you might give me the honor of buying you lunch.”

  The girl’s face lit up. “That would be fun! How ’bout that place over there? It’s close and wouldn’t take either one of us very far out of our way.”

  That made sense to Ark, who felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment at having snagged such a pretty girl, and was careful to summon up his best manners as they crossed a busy arterial. He offered his elbow and she cheerfully latched on. The pub was called Jake’s, and as Ark followed the girl past the wooden bar to a booth in the back, he noticed that a number of patrons turned to look. Of course that made sense, given how pretty she was.

  Ark was thrilled when the girl invited him to sit down next to her rather than on the other side of the table. “My name’s Laura,” she said, “Laura Posy. And you are?”

  “Ark,” the teenager replied artlessly, unsure as to whether it would be dangerous to give his last name if she demanded it.

  But if the lovely Laura was troubled by the breach of etiquette, there was no sign of it as she placed her left hand on his right thigh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ark,” she said warmly. “Let’s see what’s on the menu.”

  By that time Ark was pretty sure that he was sitting next to a very attractive prostitute, which meant that if he played his cards correctly, he might be able to score the sort of experience he had heard other, more worldly boys brag about! And, as if to reinforce that notion, Laura gave his leg a gentle squeeze.

  Ark’s sandwich was surprisingly good. It consisted of a fresh roll, heaped high with sliced skalet meat, which was nearly invisible under a blanket of melted cheese. He didn’t remember ordering a beer, but assumed that it came with the sandwich, and missed the moment when his companion passed a hand over it.

  Ten minutes later, as Ark was finishing the sandwich and wondering how to broach the subject foremost on his mind, he began to feel a bit dizzy. Was the beer to blame? Yes, probably, although Ark was no stranger to alcohol.

  He assumed the feeling would pass, especially if he left the beer alone and switched to water. But even as his mind processed the thoughts, the world around him seemed to slow. It became increasingly hard to focus and his head felt incredibly heavy. Then, it came to him: Laura was more than a hooker, Laura had slipped something into his beer, and Laura had plans for him!

  There was just enough time to process a feeling of mixed embarrassment and shame before his forehead crashed onto the plate in front of him. Ark heard slow motion laughter as two men came back to pick him up. He felt himself being carried for a short distance before being placed on a soft surface—maybe a cot. It swayed alarmingly, fell into a black pit, and took Ark along with it. His outing was over.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “‘Insubordination’ is just a fancy word for ‘washout recruit.’”

  Lieutenant Marcus Quigby, Fort Howe, Turaxis II May 2488

  THE PLANET RAYDIN III, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

  A full day had passed since the meeting with Gunny Sims. Drops of blood-warm rain were falling, and Tychus could hear the muted rumble of thunder as he made his way over to the main street. Civilians and soldiers alike were moving faster as they sought shelter from the coming deluge.

  Tychus would have done likewise had he been free to do so, but he was due back at Company HQ by 1600 hours local, where he and the other members of the Tactical Response Squad would sit around and shoot the shit until they were relieved at midnight. Which, based on a twenty-six-hour day, made for a long watch. There was plenty of comm gear at headquarters though—and all it would take was a quick call to Master Sergeant Calvin to set the illicit scheme in motion.

  So rather than enter a bar for some well-deserved R&R, Tychus marched uphill to the north end of town. That was where his CO had set up shop in the same two-story office building where one of his Kel-Morian counterparts had been doing business just a few days earlier. The sentry posted outside the front door nodded, but didn’t ask for ID, since nobody looked like Tychus except Tychus.

  The noncom had to duck his head to clear the top of the doorway, which opened into an airlock, followed by the sparsely furnished office beyond. Supplementary oxygen was being pumped in through the air conditioning system, which made it possible to remove his nose plugs and let them dangle on his chest.

  The office was decorated with a well-executed drawing of the Kel-Morian outriders’ famous death’s head logo, plus dozens of scrawled signatures. Dead men for the most part—all buried in a mass grave outside of town. There were two desks up front, and Corporal Proctor was sitting at one of them. She looked up from her work as Tychus entered.

  Proctor was pretty in an understated, no-nonsense sort of way and completely uninterested in casual sex, which was the kind that Tychus specialized in. Her bangs were straight, her eyes were gray, and Tychus saw what might have been a warning in them. “The captain has been looking for you,” she said, without inflection. “He’s in his office.”

  Tychus’s face was impassive, but alarm bells were going off in his head, because “Captain Jack,” as his marines referred to him, was one of the few people in the Confederacy who scared him. Not physic
ally, because the officer was no match for Tychus, but in other ways. Captain Jack Larimer was not only mean as hell, he had an inexplicable tendency to volunteer his unit for dangerous missions, and that was a threat to the most important person on Raydin III: Tychus Findlay.

  So it was with a sense of trepidation that Tychus placed his rifle on a wall rack and approached the open door. He rapped three times and waited for the word “Enter!” before taking the requisite three paces forward. A lot of officers would have forgone such formalities under the circumstances, but not Captain Jack. “Staff Sergeant Tychus Findlay reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Captain Jack was about thirty years old and loved to run. There were some people who said he could run the ass off a wheel. And because of that he was not only lean but very sure of himself. In fact, self-confidence seemed to ooze out of every pore of the officer’s whipcord-thin body as he lounged behind his desk and took pleasure in the fact that a man like Tychus had to follow his orders. The smile arrived slowly. “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat.”

  Tychus accepted the invitation, settled his weight onto a metal chair, and waited to find out what kind of shit detail his CO had in store for him. It didn’t take long.

  “I’m going to take the Tac Squad out on a mission tonight,” Captain Jack announced, “and you’ll be second in command.”

  Tychus nodded woodenly. “Yes, sir. What’s the objective?”

  “We’re going after a civilian collaborator,” the officer replied. “A man who took money to provide the enemy with information about his neighbors.”

  “Sounds like a picnic, sir,” Tychus commented. “Why wait? Let’s pick him up now.”

  “I said he was a civilian,” Captain Jack replied. “What I didn’t say is that he lives about fifteen miles north of here, in a fortified house, on top of a hill. There have been periods of civil unrest on Raydin III—and his home was built to take some punishment. So a bit of circumspection is in order. We’re going to dress like Kel-Morians and arrive in a Kel-Morian transport, which was captured along with the town. It was in need of some repairs, but our people put the ship right and it’s ready to lift.”