William Dietz - Heaven's Devils

“Sarge!” a voice said over the squad freq. “This is Haster… . Transport three took a direct hit… . What the hell is going on? A civilian truck pulled up outside and I caught a glimpse of Colonel Vanderspool.”

“They must have captured it and circled around the east side of the fuel tanks,” Raynor observed grimly.

“Raise the ramp,” Tychus ordered tersely. “And don’t allow anyone to enter. Not Vanderspool and not Cassidy… . Do you scan me? Over.”

“Five by five, Sarge. Over.”

“Good. We’re on the way. Over.”

There were only two sabers by that time. The one Raynor was driving, and a second vehicle, with Kydd at the wheel. The third transport was still burning, and a thick finger of black smoke rose to point at the sky as the sabers passed through an open gate. “Be ready, Jim,” Tychus said, as he shoved a fresh magazine into his gauss rifle. “We could be outgunned.”

Raynor could see the flatbed truck by then, as well as the people who were spilling out the back, and knew the situation was serious. He knew Vanderspool would almost certainly destroy the first transport if he had the means to do so and escape in the second. Then, with no one left alive to contradict him, he’d be free to concoct whatever story he chose.

As Raynor brought the saber to a screeching halt, the scene that greeted him was considerably different from what he expected to see. Vanderspool was present all right, as was Doc—but both were prisoners.

Pax’s helmet was missing, a blood-stained bandage was wrapped around his head, and the two rippers standing behind him were in equally bad shape. But the Kel-Morians were vertical, heavily armed, and definitely in control. At some point they had captured Vanderspool and Cassidy, loaded them onto a civilian truck, and circled around behind the storage tanks.

“Hold it right there,” Pax said as Tychus swung his enormous feet out of the saber and stood up. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot Colonel Vanderspool in the head.”

Raynor had circled to the front of the saber by that time. Both Raynor and Tychus began to laugh as Vanderspool scowled. The sound was amplified, and boomed over the external speakers. “Be my guest,” Tychus said coldly. “Do us all a favor and blow his fekkin’ head off.”

Pax looked at Tychus, saw the cold determination on his face, and knew the noncom was serious. “Your troops aren’t very loyal, are they?” the Kel-Morian officer said disgustedly. “I should have known.”

Having stopped the saber about five hundred yards away, Kydd was standing next to it, using the hood as a rest for his rifle. From that angle most of Pax’s body was obscured by Vanderspool’s. There was another option, however. Kydd adjusted his aim slightly, his finger took up the last bit of slack, and the rifle fired. Vanderspool’s body jerked spasmodically as the heavy slug smashed through his shoulder and hit the man immediately behind him.

Blood sprayed the area as the bullet tore Pax’s throat out and the other Kel-Morians opened fire. The result was nearly instantaneous as both Tychus and Raynor hosed them down with a hail of gauss spikes.

The enemy soldiers attempted to stand their ground, but one of them fell as Kydd fired on him, and the other staggered drunkenly as the incoming gauss spikes tore through his suit. Then he toppled over backward and skidded for a short distance before coming to a halt.

That was when Tychus realized that Cassidy had taken a spike through the chest at some point in the exchange of fire and was lying on her back looking up at the sky. He hurried to kneel next to her and placed a hand under her head. The liquid in her throat made a gargling sound as she spoke. “It wasn’t personal… . It was never personal. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Tychus replied soberly. “I know.”

Doc forced a smile, and was about to say something else, when her eyes went out of focus. She was gone.

Tychus swore, forced himself to rise, and took a look around. That was when his eyes came to rest on Vanderspool. The officer was on his knees, clutching the bloody mess that was his shoulder and sobbing loudly. “Please!” Vanderspool pleaded as he looked up. “I need a medic! I’ll pay you!”

“Doc is dead,” Tychus said flatly. “You killed her.”

That wasn’t true. Not that it mattered. Raynor stepped beside Tychus, looked down at Vanderspool, and felt the anger start to build inside him. Because there, kneeling in front of him, was the personification of everything he had come to hate. How many people had given their lives so that Vanderspool could line his pockets? Hundreds? Thousands? It was impossible to say. But one thing was for sure… . It was never going to happen again.

Kydd joined his brothers, rifle at his side, and the three men watched the colonel writhe in agony, his façade of power and strength shattered by his own greed.

“Your father wants to see you,” Vanderspool pleaded to Kydd. “I know where he is. I’ll take you there. Please, I’m in pain.”

Kydd snorted and shook his head.

Pax’s pistol was lying on the tarmac. Vanderspool made a grab for it and Raynor stepped on his hand. Flesh gave way, bones broke, and Vanderspool screamed.

“I can ease your pain, you piece of trash,” Raynor growled as the skull on his visor whirred and his real face appeared. His voice was unnaturally cold, guttural. Seething with rage, Raynor brought the gauss rifle to bear. “Good-bye, asshole.”

Vanderspool’s eyes grew larger, he opened his mouth to say “No,” and a single spike slammed into his chest. As the officer toppled over onto his side, Raynor felt his anger melt away, to be replaced by something else. Somehow, without intending to, he had become part of the very thing he despised. A universe in which the Old Families could take whatever they wanted, send brain-panned citizens out to fight interstellar wars, and kill with impunity. The realization was followed by a profound sense of shame—and a determination to be who he wanted to be. Or, in his father’s words, the man he chose to be.

The three men stood there for a moment. The area was completely silent except for the crackle of flames as they continued to devour the city—and the sudden whine of engines as Vanderspool’s dropship prepared to lift without him. Tychus was the first to speak. “The Hellhounds will be here soon. We’d better get a move on.”

The men turned toward the remaining dropship. Haster had dropped the ramp by then, and was waiting inside, as they began to make their way up. Tychus led the way, with Kydd right behind him. Raynor paused to take one last look at the city where so many of his friends had given their lives. We weren’t angels, Raynor thought, we were the Heaven’s Devils. The best of the worst.

The thought brought a nostalgic smile to Raynor’s lips and it was still in place as the dropship took off and left the carnage behind. He was going AWOL, so his war was over, but he would never forget the friends who had fallen in the town of Korsy. Not ever.

William C. Dietz is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels, some of which have been translated into German, Russian, and Japanese. He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has traveled to six continents.

Dietz has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, television producer, and director of public relations and marketing for an international telephone company. He is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the Writer’s Guild, and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.