Heaven’s Devils Read online

  Harnack pretended to sniff the air. “Damn! What’s that smell?” Then, as if seeing Raynor for the first time, Harnack pointed at him. “Here’s the problem… . Somebody took a dump in the back of the bus!”

  Harnack’s toadies erupted into laughter.

  “What have we here?” Harnack demanded, as he snatched Raynor’s lunch sack off the seat. “This yours?” Then, having dropped it on the floor, Harnack stomped it. “Oh, sorry … must’a slipped. Too bad there aren’t any farmers around to protect you now.”

  Raynor knew he had to stand up for himself, and was halfway out of his seat when a florid Timson appeared. “What the hell are you jerk weeds doing back here?” the noncom demanded. “This ain’t no fekkin’ tea party. Sit down and shut up or I’ll put a boot up your ass!”

  The admonition left Raynor with no choice but to sit down, or complain about the other recruits, which was sure to make the situation even worse. Timson wasn’t there to protect him—he just didn’t want any trouble. Where the hell is Omer? Jim thought. And then he spotted him. Having just boarded the bus, Omer pretended not to notice the confrontation and immediately took a seat in the front row. Well, so much for loyalty.

  Harnack straightened and nodded solemnly. “Sorry, we were working on seating arrangements, that’s all… . We’re good to go.” Raynor was surprised by the bully’s sudden deference.

  Timson’s beady brown eyes flicked from face to face. “Don’t cause any trouble back here… . You’ll regret it if you do.” And with that he turned back toward the front of the bus and proceeded to count heads as he made his way forward. Then, having matched the total to the number on his list, he gave the driver permission to proceed. Harnack flashed Raynor a wicked smile before taking a seat a few rows up.

  The engine roared and the bus lurched into motion. Then, while the few remaining spectators looked on, the transport raised a cloud of dust as it followed the main street to the two-lane highway, which is where the journey to the next town began. There were two additional stops, each lasting an hour or so, which meant it was well after dark by the time the bus pulled into Burroughston.

  But rather than the hotel that Raynor had been hoping for, the recruits were ordered to get out in front of the local upper school, where the custodian was waiting to lead them to the gymnasium. They’re going to make us sleep in this place? he thought. It had high ceilings, simwood floors, and bleachers that were positioned along the south wall. The score on the electronic reader board was zero-zero. Raynor could have been back in Centerville.

  “Welcome home,” Corporal Timson said sarcastically. “You think this sucks? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is a fekkin’ paradise compared to your average barracks.”

  There was a scattering of mumbled replies, which, judging from the expression on Timson’s face, amounted to a personal insult. He stood with fists on hips. “What the hell was that?” he demanded rhetorically. “Eventually, should one or two of you be fortunate enough to get through basic, you will be entitled to call me Corporal. But until that unlikely day dawns, you will address every noncom and officer that you encounter as either sir or ma’am, depending on the type of plumbing they were issued. And you will do so in a voice that can be heard on Tarsonis. Do you scan me, maggots?”

  Maggots? It was so melodramatic, Raynor had to battle a grin as he shouted “YES, SIR!” along with the other recruits. The response was still ragged, but a good deal louder, and phrased correctly.

  “That’s better,” Timson allowed grudgingly. “Not perfect, but better. Draw your gear, pick a place to bed down, and report to me. We’re eating field rats tonight, better known as barf boxes, and don’t even think about trying to heat one of them up. If you burn this dump down it will be deducted from your pay. Do you scan me?”

  This time the answer was nearly perfect. “YES, SIR!”

  “All right, assholes,” Timson growled. “Get your butts in gear.”

  It didn’t take long for Raynor to get a mat, blankets, and towel. Then came the problem of where to put them. A good number of at least temporary friendships had been forged on the bus, but after being targeted by Harnack and his toadies, Raynor had been ostracized. Even Omer had deserted him. Not as part of a conspiracy, but because of a generally held desire to stay clear of the bully, as well as his pin-headed supporters.

  So Raynor wound up throwing his mat down on the floor next to the north wall, a position that was a good fifteen feet from the nearest recruit, but would allow him to sleep with his back against something solid. Hopefully, assuming things went well, Harnack—whose name Raynor had discovered was Hank—would turn his attention elsewhere.

  With that accomplished, Raynor went over to the line that led to Corporal Timson and three crates of A-rats—containers holding meals that could be eaten hot or cold—plus heat tabs they weren’t supposed to use, an energy bar, and two contraceptives.

  Two minutes later Harnack showed up, elbowed his way into the queue, and grinned menacingly. “Hey, sissy boy, mind if I cut in?” It was the fueling line situation all over again.

  Raynor felt the anger begin to rise inside him, and was careful to channel it, as he snapped his head forward. It was a move that his father, who had been something of a brawler in his younger days, had taught him when he entered upper school—when his mom wasn’t around, of course. “Don’t ever back down from a bully,” Trace had said. “Fight to win and end it as quickly as possible.” And the head butt worked extremely well as solid bone met the bridge of Harnack’s nose, cartilage broke, and blood gushed onto the bully’s chin.

  Then, while Harnack was still trying to absorb what had happened, Raynor brought a knee up into his crotch. That was when Harnack produced a high-pitched keening sound, fell to his knees, and brought both hands in to guard his aching stones.

  “Sure,” Raynor said conversationally, “please feel free to cut in front of me anytime you want to.”

  Corporal Timson heard the disturbance, issued a long string of swear words, and arrived on the scene thirty seconds later. He looked down at Harnack and up to Raynor. “Did you do this?”

  Raynor was about to say yes when Harnack lurched to his feet and came to something resembling attention. This was when Raynor learned his first lesson about the military: the unspoken code that marines don’t rat out other marines. “Sir, no sir,” he lied. “I slipped and fell.”

  “Really?” Timson inquired cynically. “You fell on your balls?”

  That got a laugh from everyone within ear range with the notable exception of Harnack’s toadies, who shuffled their feet and glowered at Raynor.

  “Yes, sir,” Harnack said stiffly, his eyes straight ahead.

  Timson shook his head wearily and sighed. “Okay, be more careful next time. Now hit the head, get yourself cleaned up, and report to me. I’ll put a box of A-rats aside for you.”

  Harnack gave a stiff nod, said, “Yes, sir,” and limped away. Once he was out of earshot, Timson looked Raynor up and down. “What’s your name?”

  “Raynor, sir. Jim Raynor.”

  “Well, recruit Raynor,” Timson said in a voice pitched so low no one else could hear him. “I know Harnack has been up in your face … but what goes around nearly always comes around, which means you should keep a close eye on your six.”

  Raynor knew Timson was referring to the six o’clock position on a standard clock, which was to say, his ass. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Plus,” Timson added ominously, “if you do anything like that again you’re going to piss me off… . And pissing me off is a very bad idea. Do you scan me?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good. Go get something to wipe up the blood with, get back in line, and don’t screw up. I’ll be watching you.”

  So Raynor went in search of a utility room and found one. Then, mop in hand, he went back to clean up Harnack’s blood. And it was then that he noticed how things had changed. Recruits who hadn’t been willing to speak with him before were openly frien
dly now—which meant he had people to sit with as the group explored their rations.

  The fact that each of them had been issued two condoms came in for a good deal of humorous commentary, as did the political propaganda that was printed inside the lid of each barf box, urging “each member of the Confederacy’s military forces to fight the Arbellan menace with all of his or her strength.” The problem was, the Arbellan rebels had been defeated ten years earlier! The rations had apparently been sitting in a warehouse for a very long time.

  Once the meal was over, Raynor returned to his mat, removed his fone from the travel satchel, and surfed the latest sports scores, followed by a news summary.

  He readied his Dopp kit, and began what turned out to be a long surveillance of the men’s bathroom. Raynor had taken Timson’s—and his father’s—advice seriously and knew there was a very good chance that a person like Harnack would come looking for revenge. And what better place to attack someone than in a restroom?

  As he waited, Raynor brought up one of the digi-tomes he had uploaded for the trip. It came complete with a soundtrack that matched the story, continually morphing illustrations, and opportunities to pull up more information about the characters and their backgrounds. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Harnack and each one of his toadies had come and gone from the lavatory before he followed a group of three other recruits into the brightly lit space and took a quick sonic shower. Then, with a towel tied around his hips, he made his way over to one of the mirrors and went to work with his sonic toothbrush. That was when he heard the boy who had been singing in the shower stop suddenly.

  Raynor turned, but not quickly enough, as a big bony fist hit him in the side of the head. He fell, and was still sprawled on the tiled floor when Harnack placed a size thirteen boot on his chest. Toadies formed a semicircle around him, and judging from the lack of other background sounds, the rest of the recruits had been ordered to vacate the room.

  There was a black scab on the bridge of Harnack’s broken nose, one eye was beginning to turn purple, and there was no sign of humor in the smile he produced. “Well, sissy boy, we meet again. You surprised me, I admit that—I didn’t think you had the balls. But there’s a big difference between head butting someone when they don’t expect it and fighting like a man. So get up, sissy boy, and let’s see how you do in a real fight.”

  Raynor considered mentioning the time he kicked Harnack’s ass in the fueling line, but refrained. A foot belonging to a very angry person was pressing down on his chest, after all. It was not the time for brutal honesty.

  Jim understood both the situation and the part he was about to play. Having been put down in the gym, and having lost face in front of his followers, Harnack had to whip him. Or at least seem to, although Jim realized the chances of a truly fair fight were pretty slim as he scrambled to his feet.

  That didn’t make any difference, of course, because what was, was, and all Raynor could do was accept the situation and make the best of it. Which was why he began the one-sided contest by taking a swing at the nearest toady. He felt his fist connect and had the satisfaction of seeing the youth go down.

  That was a victory of sorts, but a short-lived one, as the other three rushed him. Raynor landed a punch on Harnack’s cheek, but that was the extent of the damage he could do as a flurry of punches and kicks drove him to the floor.

  Then, while blow after vicious blow landed, all Raynor could do was curl up into the fetal position and try to protect his head as the other recruits kicked him. “How do you like this moron now?” Harnack demanded from some place far away, as Raynor began to fall toward the bottom of a deep well.

  Then the beating was over, the pain was gone, and Raynor was at peace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “This year’s historic Reunion, an interplanetary summit of representatives from the original Old Families, will take place on Tarsonis, following a week of ceremony and celebration. More than a century has passed since the first supercarriers arrived in the Koprulu sector from Earth, and the descendants of those intrepid pioneers are slated to discuss a variety of topics regarding the economy and governance of terran space. Members of the Confederate government have already scheduled meetings with these representatives in order to incorporate their counsel into action more smoothly.”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN April 2488

  THE PLANET TARSONIS, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

  The curtains made a hushed whisper as they rose far enough to let some sunlight in, the bed shivered ever so slightly, and the console that was built into the headboard of Ark Bennet’s bed produced a soft chiming sound.

  The teenager yawned, swung his feet over onto thick carpeting, and began the process of getting ready for a new day. He threw open the double doors that led to his private terrace. Tarsonis City was so vast that it stretched all the way to the horizon, where the details of it were lost in the early morning haze. The metroplex was both the capital of the Confederacy of Man and its largest city, which meant it was home to millions of people—very few of whom had the privilege f viewing it from the perspective of a sixty-three-room mansion every morning.

  But as a member of an Old Family, such was Ark’s birthright. And as his eyes swept across clusters of high-rise office towers, slab-like apartment complexes, and scabrous slums, he could feel the city’s seething energy, the dark allure of its mazelike streets, and the siren call of pleasures he had heard about but never experienced. Because to be rich was to be the target of thieves, kidnappers, and paparazzi. So he rarely had the opportunity to venture out without a small army of heavily armed bodyguards who would report whatever he did to his parents. So what good was wealth, Ark asked himself, if you’re a prisoner to it?

  The city offered no answer other than the subdued roar of traffic as he closed the doors, turned back into the room, and crossed a broad expanse of carpet to his private bathroom. It was large enough to accommodate four. The walls were covered in exquisite marble, and at least a dozen fluffy towels were available for use, as Ark examined himself in a large, ornately framed mirror.

  He was, according to his mother, “a very handsome young man,” although Ark knew it wasn’t true. His eyes were too far apart, his lips too thin, and his chin too narrow for that. Girls liked him nonetheless—or seemed to—but was that for real? Or the result of his family’s wealth?

  There had already been talk of an arranged marriage with the Falco family, which, though less prominent than his, owned one of the smaller shipping lines. It was a logical merger—interstellar shipping, building spaceships, and developing atmospheric craft-like military transports would provide strong horizontal integration. An arranged marriage would allow the Falcos to maintain a measure of independence. And if they were part of the larger family—so to speak—they would have a greater voice, which could make an important difference. But the prospect of marrying sixteen-year-old Hailey Falco had very little appeal for Ark.

  He had finished upper school two weeks earlier—and the pressure was on to choose between two competing visions of who he would become. His father wanted him to learn the family business, his mother wanted him to become a scholar, and Ark was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be any good at either one of those things.

  The intercom buzzed as Ark ran a sonic razor over his face. The voice belonged to his father. “Ark, we’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

  Ark sighed, said, “Yes, Father,” and eyed himself in the mirror. A very young face stared back at him. What should I do? The other Ark was mute.

  There were two ways that members of an Old Family could travel, and each had certain advantages. They could blast through traffic in a heavily armed convoy, or move covertly in vehicles that didn’t look special but were. In this case Ark and his father were cocooned inside a groundcar that was tricked out with what dealers called “a city package.” That included screened windows, a bullet-proof skin, and solid run-flat tires. All of which was intended to ensure the Bennet family’s privacy
as well as their safety.

  Unlike some of the Old Families, who clearly enjoyed “giving face” as the paparazzi referred to it, Ark’s parents had gone to great lengths to keep both him and his sister under wraps. That was partly because they looked down on families who consistently played to the press as being crass, but it was a practical matter as well, because kidnappers frequently went after the most visible targets. And young people who were out on the town, traipsing from one nightclub to another, were easy to intercept. So Ark was used to playing his status down rather than up, and was constitutionally happy to do so.

  Clearing a path for the nondescript car and its two passengers was what appeared to be a beat-up cab with a couple of armed guards inside. And bringing up the rear was a graffiti-covered delivery van, equipped with drop panels. Once the sides fell, two combat-suited ex-marines would be free to wade into traffic firing AGR-14 gauss rifles. Which should be more than sufficient firepower to defeat kidnappers or assassins.

  But, for the moment, all three vehicles were waiting for a light to change. That was the problem with the low-key approach. The convoy was forced to blend in rather than blast through intersections with lights flashing and sirens bleeping.

  The elder Bennet had a broad forehead, close-set eyes, and a prominent jaw. The businessman was dressed in a two-thousand-credit silk suit, which shimmered slightly as light from the moon roof hit it. Ark couldn’t imagine wearing something like that; he preferred to dress the way most of his peers did, in a wire jacket that morphed from color to color depending on the nature of his surroundings, a Thump Band T-shirt, and the latest Street Feet shoes.

  “So,” Errol Bennet said dryly, as he eyed his son, “this will be your first conference—which is to say your first opportunity to see what awaits you.”

  Given the way his comment was framed, Errol Bennet clearly assumed that once everything was said and done, Ark would see things his way. The business—an empire really, that was built around interstellar shipping, but had holdings in related industries as well—was an endless source of fascination for Ark’s older sister, Tara. She had been groomed for as long as he could remember to follow in their father’s footsteps.