Tychus frowned. “No offense, sir, but we have the bastards on the run… . Shouldn’t we follow up?”
It was like talking to a rock. “We have our orders, and our orders are always correct,” the resoc answered.
“He’s one of Vanderspool’s color guards,” Raynor said quietly. “Which means the big cheese will arrive any second now.” As if to confirm the connection, a loud roar was heard as a dropship flared in to land on the plaza beyond. And as a ramp dropped, the officer emerged. His armor was spotless. Having waited until the surrounding area was secure, Vanderspool was there to take part in the final assault, even if that gave the KMs more time to prepare.
The reason for the delay was apparent as Speer ran forward to document the colonel’s arrival. “What an asshole,” Tychus said to no one in particular.
“The sergeant will employ correct comm procedure,” the lieutenant said primly, “and refrain from the use of profanity. Over.”
Raynor thought about Sanchez, the resocialized marines, and all the others whose bodies lay like a bloody carpet between the river and the repository. An important objective had been taken. But at what price?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“… so completely devastated by war, it’s difficult to say whether the natural resources that initially drew settlers to Turaxis II were a blessing or a curse.”
THE CITY OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The afternoon following the attack on the Kel-Morian repository the Confederates were still in the process of securing the repository and the area around it. A battalion of resocialized marines had been brought in to relieve the surviving members of the 321st. Clusters of them were sitting around the riverfront, shooting the breeze and waiting for a chance to cross the pontoon bridge into south Polk’s Pride.
The span was too narrow to accommodate two-way traffic, so until such time as the second parallel bridge was completed, it was necessary to wait up to an hour before the MPs switched the flow from one direction to the other.
The members of the Heaven’s Devils didn’t care, though. It was early afternoon, the air was warm, and they were happy to sit around doing nothing as traffic rumbled over the bridge. The Devils had taken over what had once been a ground-floor office in a blown-out warehouse, and most of them had shed their suits. The single exception was Ward, who was waiting for Feek to run a diagnostic program on his armor. The rest of the Devils were lounging about as Speer strolled into the area.
There were warm greetings as everyone gathered around to say hello to the civilian a few of them regarded as an unofficial member of the squad. And that was when Speer urged the group to step outside the shattered building for a group vidsnap.
The Devils shuffled out and gathered in a loose formation, despite Speer’s protests to “Move closer,” “look alive,” and “please, work with me, here!” They were worn out, beat up, and, though in high spirits, a couple of them still had no patience for the reporter. As they turned out to face the camera, Harnack insisted on holding his flamethrower, Zander thought it would be funny to light a cigar off of it, and Kydd hid most of his face under a boonie hat and a pair of mirrorshades. Feek was there as well, perched on top of Ward’s gauss cannon, right behind Raynor and a bare-chested Tychus. Doc, who was high on crab, sat off to the side. “Got it!” Speer said brightly as he took the shot. “I’ll call it ‘the Devils take a break.’ Our viewers will love it. So, where are you headed next? Or is that classified?”
“Raynor’s probably headed for a work camp,” Tychus said, “since Sergeant Rockwell is going to press charges.”
“And the rest of you?”
“Who the hell knows?” Tychus continued. “There’s got to be some sort of shit detail they can give us.”
Speer made a face. “Well, hang in there… . Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Feek said his good-byes and both men left. A Klaxon sounded ten minutes later, traffic began to flow south across the bridge, and the Devils were free to follow. For others, millions of them, the wars continued.
MILITARY STOCKADE-7, WEST OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Raynor’s wrist and leg irons rattled noisily as he hobbled out of Barracks #2 and began to cross the barren yard. It was surrounded by one-story buildings that were all painted the same shade of puke green with wire mesh over their windows. About three dozen other prisoners were out getting some sun, and a few hollered greetings as Raynor shuffled past. He waved with two linked hands in response.
The restraints were standard for anyone who was receiving a visitor. It wasn’t that the stockade personnel believed prisoners would try to escape—the well-secured visitor’s center made that very unlikely. No, they were intended to humiliate the prisoners, which was considered part of their punishment.
Raynor could just imagine his mother’s face, seeing him shackled like that, and his father, wondering if he’d done his son a disservice by teaching him to stand up to bullies. Because in the real world, the rules were different—or at least that was what Raynor had come to find out. This wasn’t some obnoxious kid cutting him off in traffic. This was real. Painfully and sickeningly real.
But Raynor wondered, should evil go unpunished just because it’s wielded by someone in power? Was this one of those times that his dad had described to him, when you had to know “when to get involved and when to walk away”? Plenty of times during his sentence he had asked himself, if he had the chance to live that moment over again, would he still hit Rockwell? The answer was always the same, and no shackles or chains could ever change it.
A hard-eyed resocialized marine held up his hand as Raynor approached the door. “Hold it right there, Private… . Let’s have a look at those eyeballs.”
Damn, Raynor thought to himself, they’re everywhere.
In addition to being sentenced to thirty days in the stockade for striking Sergeant Rockwell, Raynor had been busted to private, and his pay had been docked as well. Now, after twenty-eight days in the slammer he was used to being scanned, and was careful not to blink as the guard flicked the pistol-shaped device from left to right. Because to blink, and possibly interrupt the scan, was to be defiant. And that could result in a loss of privileges, including the freedom to receive visitors.
“You may proceed,” the marine said cheerfully, as he stepped to one side.
Chains rattled as Raynor was forced to hop up three stairs and open a metal door with both of his shackled hands. Once inside he hobbled across a mirror-bright floor to the check-in kiosk where a bored-looking corporal scanned him again.
Then, having been cleared, Raynor was sent to Booth #3 where Feek was waiting for him. All of the Devils had been by at various times, but Feek’s visits had been the most frequent, because the civilian had the freedom to come and go as he pleased. “How ya doin’?” Feek asked. A plasteel barrier separated them, and, as usual, Feek had to kneel on his chair in order to speak through the metal grill.
“Good,” Raynor lied. “Real good. I sure am itchin’ to get back, though.”
“I’ll bet,” Feek agreed. “The whole squad will be down in Darby two days from now. And Tychus talked your new platoon leader into letting you go, too. His name is Tyson and he hates Rockwell. So no problem there.”
“That’s great,” Raynor said enthusiastically. “I could use some R and R. That’s for sure.”
Feek grinned understandingly. “I wish I could join you … but I’ll be working overtime. A new shipment of suits came in and I’ve gotta get them up and running.”