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.”
“And my suit?”
“It’s black,” Feek replied, “just like you asked for, with the skull on the visor. It looks so badass, man. Lieutenant Tyson will shit a brick when he sees it—but that’s your problem.”
“Roger that,” Raynor agreed. “It’s time those KM bastards know that death is coming for them.”
“Maybe,” Feek replied doubtfully. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I need to tell you about. Something you should pass on to Tychus.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Feek looked left and right as if to assure himself that none of the other visitors were close enough to hear before making eye contact with Raynor. “Vanderspool sent a tech I had never met before down to run maintenance checks on about forty sets of armor—including all of the suits that belong to you guys.”
“So?”
“That’s my job. Why send a new guy? Unless somebody doesn’t trust me.
“Once the tech left I went over the suits with a fine-tooth comb. And guess what? The sonofabitch installed kill switches in every hardskin.”
Raynor frowned. “Kill switches?”
“Yeah,” Feek replied. “Meaning remotely operated switches that would enable the colonel to trigger the emergency lockdown mode and freeze your suits.”
Raynor gave a low whistle. “The rotten SOB.”
“Exactly,” the other man agreed. “So I cut the input circuits. Which means Vanderspool can push the button all day long and nothing will happen.”
Raynor grinned. “How many beers do we owe you?”
Feek laughed. “Enough for me to swim in! You watch that bastard, Jim. You watch him real good. He’s up to something and that’s no lie.”
The rest of the fifteen-minute-long visit was spent on more trivial matters, but when it came time for Raynor to hobble out into the prison yard, his mind went back to what Feek had told him. Vanderspool was up to something … but what?
THE CITY OF DARBY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The city of Darby was located seventy-five miles south of Polk’s Pride, and because it had little to no strategic importance, was almost entirely untouched by the fighting. It was a picturesque place that occupied the western shore of a beautiful lake. It was fed by the Paddick River, which meant dead bodies were swept up in fishing nets from time to time, but the city was otherwise bright and cheerful, even at night when the citizens made use of flashlights to counter the mandatory blackout.
Having completed an uncomfortable truck ride down from Polk’s Pride and checked into a so-called “military hotel,” the Devils had agreed to go their separate ways during the first evening and gather the following night. Tychus, Doc, and Harnack were headed out to sample the city’s nightlife, while Ward was intent on logging some extra rack time, and Kydd was determined to have what he called some “real food.” That left Zander, who offered to accompany the sniper.
After obtaining the name of a good restaurant, Kydd and Zander ventured out onto a busy street. Both wore tasteful civvies, but no one who knew anything about the area would have mistaken them for locals.
Two moons were still up, so there was enough light to see by as the men left their hotel. They had obtained a map and flashlights for later from the concierge, but before they started on their way, Kydd and Zander paused for a moment to look out over the lake. Most of the city’s homes were built on terraces carved out of a large hill, but at least a thousand were perched on pilings and sat directly above the water. Those structures, along with some of the businesses that served them, were connected by a maze of elevated bridges, walkways, and in some cases simple planks. That meant visitors had to be very careful not to get lost or fall into the cold waters below.
It was a possibility that Kydd kept firmly in mind as he and Zander followed the map down to the waterfront, out onto a pedestrian-only causeway, and into the Lakehome neighborhood. Charming homes stood side by side with shops as well as utilitarian buildings that served the city’s extremely important fishing industry.
And farther out, where unobstructed views of the water were available, restaurant row was waiting to be explored. That’s where the young men were headed, to an eatery that was supposed to be one of the best. In the meantime there were cute girls to look at, other soldiers to systematically ignore, and storefronts that sold things other than porno, tattoos, and trashy clothing. All of which was a change for Zander, who had been raised in a slum and was very conscious of his lower-class origins.