Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  There were only three people aboard the dropship. The pilot, Feek, who was acting as jump master, and Lance Corporal Jim Raynor. Tychus had offered to come along and shove his friend into the abyss, but Raynor had declined.

  Five extremely busy days had passed since his meeting with Tychus, and now, with Colonel Vanderspool’s blessing, Raynor was about to drop into Kel-Morian-held territory alone. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, and he knew that now. But maybe, just maybe, the mission was a way to atone for stealing the trucks. And it was something he knew his parents would be proud of.

  One thing was for sure—there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory. Raynor had taken the utmost care to learn everything he could about the Kel-Morian prisoner he would be impersonating. Fortunately, they were about the same height and had similar builds. Raynor had watched intelligence officers interrogate the pilot via a closed circuit feed, and had been given access to his personal property as well, which included the contents of his fone. So Raynor knew all sorts of things about Ras Hagar, including his wife’s name, how many children he had, and what kind of music he liked. Would it be enough? No, not if the Kel-Morians scanned his retinas, but there was little chance of that. From what the captured pilot said, they were so short on tech supplies, scanners were nearly impossible to find. All he had to do was play his role right, and there wouldn’t be any doubt as to who he was.

  Raynor was trying to focus on remembering his alter ego’s story, but his mind was swirling with worry. The dropship was flying in from the west as a half-dozen Avengers were conducting a raid a few miles to the south as a diversion. Would the KMs notice the additional blip on their screens? Yes, they would, but Raynor and the crew were taking a gamble that the dropship would come off their list of threats as soon as it turned back.

  Feek came back to see him. The technician’s visor was open so Raynor could see his expression. What was it anyway? Admiration? Pity? Or some combination of the two? He would never know. “We’re five minutes out,” Feek said. “It’s time to get in position and start your final check.”

  “Thanks,” Raynor said. He was already standing up. Having shuffled forward to the point where the rectangular-shaped black abyss awaited him, it was time to run a last check on the suit. Here’s your chance, an inner voice said. If there’s something wrong with your suit you can’t jump. Nobody would question that.

  But another voice could be heard as well. And it belonged to his father. “A lie is like an infection, Son… . It burrows deep inside and makes you sick.”

  Besides, there were the POWs to think about, and the memory of the way Hobarth looked was enough to strengthen Raynor’s resolve. So Raynor ran one last check, saw all of the indicators come up green, and gave a thumbs-up to Feek. He nodded, the pilot said, “Good luck” over the intercom, and it was time to close his visor as the final countdown began. He could see it on his HUD and hear it in his ears. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

  Knowing how important timing was going to be, Raynor started moving on three, was halfway through the hatch on two, and in freefall as the countdown hit “one.” Everything was pitch-black. There were no visual cues to go by other than the displays on his HUD. But practice made perfect, and Raynor was pleased to discover that his body knew what to do. As the altimeter in the upper left hand corner of his vision continued to unwind, he was head over feet and stable.

  When the jet pack came on, it felt as though he were being propelled upward, but only for a moment, as the CMC-230-XE began to slow, and surface winds threatened to tip him over. But Raynor knew how to compensate, and did so, as the thrust continued to increase and a ghostly green landscape began to populate his HUD.

  However, there wasn’t any time to admire the view as the ground rushed up, Raynor flexed his knees, and the hardskin did likewise. Then came the impact as his boots hit, the jet pack shut itself off, and he was down. Ironically, it was the best landing he had ever executed, day or night, and there wasn’t anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment.

  Well, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone, but the possibility of bad luck was always a factor, and Raynor took a quick look around to ensure that he hadn’t come down right on top of a KM patrol. But there was no sign of anything other than a glowing green animal that eyed him for a moment before scurrying away.

  Satisfied that he was safe, for the moment at least, it was time to look for a suitable hiding place. After casting about for a bit, Raynor came across a depression and went about the clumsy process of lying down in it. Which, given the jet pack on his back, was more like leaning on something rather than lying flat.

  Then it was time to exit his armor. Raynor chinned a control, opened a latch, and was rewarded with a hissing sound as the hardskin opened and pressures were equalized. Raynor pushed the top half aside, kicked his way free of the control interfaces, and struggled to his feet. With only a Kel-Morian flight suit to protect him, the night air was cold.

  But there was work to do, beginning with the need to arm a self-destruct system that would destroy both the CMC-230-XE and everything within a twenty-foot radius were someone to tamper with it. With that out of the way, it was time to cover the hardskin with a thin sheet of protective camo cloth and a layer of loose rocks to keep the rig from being discovered. That took Raynor more than an hour and left him feeling as tired as Hellhound pilot Ras Hagar would be after seven days of making his way out of the zone.

  And the fact that he hadn’t showered or shaved for that same period of time would support his story. If he got to tell it. But first he had a five-mile hike to complete. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was a seldom-used mining road he could follow that would take him to a point within half a mile of the POW camp. Plus he had a compass and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compass to help him find his way.

  Raynor ate an energy bar, took a moment to wash it down with a swallow of water, and set off. Now, as the second phase of his mission began, the night was his armor.

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Cassidy needed a fix, but she was out of crab, and had been for two grueling days. There was a shortage of the stuff in the HTD due to the war and police crackdowns. That was the bad news. The good news was that she was going to score a week’s worth of the drug in the next hour or so! All she had to do was fight back the withdrawal symptoms, make her way through the HTD to Colonel Vanderspool’s hidden hideaway, and rat her friends out. But hey, Cassidy thought, as she turned, tense and shaky, into the narrow passageway. What are friends for? To give you a helping hand, right? Well, I sure as hell need a helping hand right now.

  Vanderspool was waiting for her on the balcony above the Gourmand restaurant. He was wearing civilian clothes, and looked reasonably happy, which meant his mistress was on duty and performing well. But the most important thing was the small metal container on the table in front of him. That was full of crab, her crab, and she could smell it. Or was that a hallucination? It was difficult to tell.

  “Hello, my dear,” Vanderspool said warmly. “You look ravishing as usual… . Please have a seat.”

  So Cassidy sat down, and with a minimum amount of prompting from Vanderspool, delivered her report as she fumbled with her hands to keep them from quivering. There wasn’t much to say, truth be told, since the squad had been too busy training for the raid on KIC-36 to get into trouble, but there were always a few minor infractions she could report on—such as the booze Harnack kept in his locker.

  Vanderspool listened patiently, but didn’t seem to be all that interested, and neglected to ask any follow-up questions whatsoever. “So,” he said, once Cassidy’s report trailed away. “Is that it?”

  Cassidy struggled to keep her unfocused eyes up and off the metal container. “Yes, sir … that’s it.”

  “Okay,” Vanderspool said agreeably. “Well done! Now listen carefully… . There’s something I need you to do for me. So
mething important.”

  As soon as Doc realized she’d have to wait longer to get her fix, a jolt of pain shot through her nervous system, and her body twitched involuntarily. Her skin moistened and suddenly she felt very cold. As Vanderspool spoke, leaning in close, every puff of his breath sent sickening shivers down her spine. He was enjoying this.

  It took him more than ten minutes to give Doc her orders, which she concentrated hard to take in—and because each minute felt like an hour, the meeting seemed to last forever. As she listened to Vanderspool’s orders, she realized her role was changing from snitch to something far more sinister. Cassidy would have agreed to anything at that point just to get her fix, not that Vanderspool gave her much choice.

  Finally, just as she began to fear that she was going to lose control of her crab-starved body, the meeting came to an end. By now, Doc’s jaw was clenched so tight, her vision blurred each time her pulse throbbed in her head.

  Three minutes later, in the shadow cast by the dumpster behind the restaurant, Doc was transformed. Suddenly she felt whole again, life was worth living, and the pain was behind her. As she exhaled what felt like her first breath of life, her dry eyes burned with a sudden swell of tears.

  KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The headquarters building was located inside the plascrete barrier, and was home to both the internment camp’s offices and the overseer’s living quarters. And with plenty of slave labor to call upon, the previously modest space had been expanded to include a dining room, sitting room, and private deck. And that’s where Overseer Hanz Brucker was, sitting on a comfortable chair and smoking a cigar as he looked out onto his private kingdom.

  His was an extremely important job. Or that’s what he thought anyway—and most people would have agreed. Overseer Brucker was responsible for a large contingent of troops that included rippers, armor, and artillery.

  Plus, he was in charge of KIC-36, an internment camp that was packed with more than three hundred extremely dangerous enemy combatants. All of whom should have been put to death. But killing Confederate POWs would inevitably result in reprisals against Kel-Morian prisoners, so it was necessary to keep them alive. But just barely alive, since there was no point in coddling people who had taken the lives of Kel-Morian fighters, and would do so again if given the chance.

  Brucker’s thoughts were interrupted as a door opened behind him and Taskmaster Lumley made use of a discreet cough to announce his presence. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir… . But dinner is ready.”

  It was welcome news since Brucker was a man of strong appetites. The cigar butt’s red ember looked like a shooting star as it arced toward the prisoners’ quarters and fell short of the edge of the deck. Lumley scurried over and stomped it out with his boot. Brucker’s chair made a scraping noise as he hoisted himself up and out of it. “Thank you, Lumley… . What am I having?”

  Lumley had a cadaverous countenance and the manner of an undertaker. “Roasted near-pig, sir, with the skin on.”

  “Excellent,” Brucker replied eagerly. “And what wine can I expect?”

  “A rather dry white, sir,” Lumley replied, as the overseer shuffled toward the door.

  “Not a red?”

  “No, sir. Not this time.”

  “Well, you know best,” Brucker allowed, as he paused to negotiate the threshold. The sitting room was nicely furnished, considering the circumstances, the emphasis being on oversized chairs and subdued lighting.

  At that point the melodic sound of a string quartet could be heard originating from the adjoining dining room. As Brucker entered he was pleased to see that the table was covered with white linen, the silver gleamed under the glow of a gracefully shaped candelabra, and the gaunt-faced musicians were seated in their usual corner. They hated playing for him, of course, but that was part of the pleasure, as was consuming an enormous meal while they were forced to watch.

  The POWs’ faces were blank, but Brucker could feel the weight of their stares as he shuffled to the head of the table. Lumley was there to hold the chair for him, lay an extra-large napkin across his midriff, and bring the first dish of what would be a seven-course meal.

  The quartet consisted of two violins, a viola, and a cello. The group wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier, before the viola player had been gunned down as he tried to climb the fence, but life is full of setbacks. And it was Brucker’s hope that the newest addition would improve with practice.

  And so the meal went, from appetizer to main course, and from Haydn to the Kel-Morian composer Odon. Then, as Lumley came in with dessert, he brought news as well. “I have a message for you, sir… . The shift boss sent word that one of our flyers presented himself at the north gate. A Hellhound pilot, I believe. He was shot down over the disputed zone and hiked back to our lines.”

  “Excellent!” Brucker said enthusiastically. “Please send for him… . And tell the cook. The poor devil will be hungry by now.”

  ***

  After jumping out of a dropship while wearing experimental combat armor and hiking five miles cross-country, Raynor should have been tired. But after talking his way into the Kel-Morian POW camp, he was so high on adrenaline he felt as if he could run for twenty miles straight. He felt as though he could see better, hear better, and even taste better. So far, Raynor’s disguise was working.

  Having been escorted from the north gate to the command center where he’d been given a place to sit down, he was sipping a glass of water when a door slammed and a Kel-Morian entered the office. The man’s stooped shoulders made him appear shorter than he actually was, and given the way his head tilted forward, it appeared as if there was something wrong with his neck. “Airman Hagar?” the man inquired, as he regarded Raynor from under bushy brows. “I’m Taskmaster Lumley. Overseer Brucker would be honored if you would join him in the dining room.”

  Dining room? Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. “Of course!” he said agreeably. “Although I fear I am far from presentable.”

  “The overseer understands,” Lumley said with the surety of the family retainer that he was. “Please follow me.”

  Raynor thanked the man who had seen to his needs thus far—and followed Lumley through a door and into the private quarters beyond. He was immediately struck by the quality of the furnishings, the dim lighting, and the music that grew steadily louder the farther they went.

  But even with something of a lead-in, Raynor wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted him as Lumley led him into the dining room. The huge, fat man who rose to greet him, the richly set table, and the animated skeletons who occupied one of the corners were like elements in a bad dream. Raynor had practiced coming to attention Kel-Morian style, and was just about to do so, when his host turned to extend a pudgy hand. “There you are, my boy!” Brucker said heartily. “I’m Overseer Brucker… . Welcome to Internment Camp-36.”

  Brucker’s grip was soft and slightly damp, and he held on for one second too long for Raynor’s comfort. He was glad when the contact was broken. “Thank you, sir… . I’m very glad to be here, as you can imagine. Three Avengers jumped me over the zone. I nailed one of the bastards, but the others put me down.”

  “Three to one,” Brucker said disapprovingly, as his already florid face grew even darker. “That’s the kind of scum we’re dealing with! Still, you showed them! Well done, lad… . Well done.”

  Brucker was shorter than Raynor by a good three inches. A few strands of brown hair had been combed over an otherwise bald pate, and little beads of perspiration could be seen on his heavily creased forehead.

  But while Brucker wasn’t a handsome man, Raynor sensed that he was a dangerous one … something that was evident in the other man’s stony eyes. They glittered with intelligence as they darted here and there, and Raynor felt himself start to sweat. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid my boss will be far less understanding, however!”

  Br
ucker laughed, just as he was supposed to, and gestured to a new place setting. “Please … you must be hungry. I have already eaten, so I hope you won’t mind dining alone while I go out to make the evening rounds. Lumley will see to your needs.”

  Raynor felt a tremendous sense of relief. He’d been dreading the prospect of a prolonged conversation with the man. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir,” Raynor replied, as he sat down.

  “You’re welcome,” Brucker said, as he shuffled toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Moments later the overseer was gone—and Raynor turned toward the POWs. They looked back at him with carefully blanked faces as their bows sawed, music flowed, and time seemed to slow. Raynor was faced with an important choice. Would he have a chance to pass the word the following day? Or was this the best opportunity he would get?

  Knowing that Lumley might arrive with food at any moment, Raynor glanced at the doorway and confirmed that it was empty. Then, having made his decision, he turned toward the quartet and spoke in a hushed voice. “Listen carefully… . I have a message from Captain Hobarth… .” He glanced again at the doorway, then continued, articulating every syllable to make his message absolutely clear. “Tomorrow night, at 2300 hours, be ready.”

  Eyes widened at the mention of Hobarth’s name, and one of the men had just opened his mouth as if to speak when Brucker reentered the room. He was faster on his feet this time, and three armed guards followed him in. Raynor thought about reaching for the pistol tucked under his left arm—but knew that doing so would be suicidal. “Place your hands on top of your head,” Brucker growled, as a taskmaster hurried forward to snatch the handgun out of its holster.