Don’t Miss These Other Tales in the Worlds of Blizzard Entertainment!
STARCRAFT®
HEAVEN’S DEVILS
by William C. Dietz
I, MENGSK
by Graham McNeill
THE DARK TEMPLAR SAGA:
BOOK ONE—FIRSTBORN
by Christie Golden
THE DARK TEMPLAR SAGA:
BOOK TWO—SHADOW HUNTERS
by Christie Golden
THE DARK TEMPLAR SAGA:
BOOK THREE—TWILIGHT
by Christie Golden
GHOST™—NOVA
by Keith R. A. DeCandido
QUEEN OF BLADES
by Aaron Rosenberg
LIBERTY’S CRUSADE
by Jeff Grubb
SHADOW OF THE XEL’NAGA
by Gabriel Mesta
SPEED OF DARKNESS
by Tracy Hickman
WORLD OF WARCRAFT®
THE SHATTERING: PRELUDE
TO CATACLYSM
by Christie Golden
STORMRAGE
by Richard A. Knaak
ARTHAS: RISE OF THE LICH KING
by Christie Golden
NIGHT OF THE DRAGON
by Richard A. Knaak
BEYOND THE DARK PORTAL
by Aaron Rosenberg & Christie Golden
TIDES OF DARKNESS
by Aaron Rosenberg
RISE OF THE HORDEM
by Christie Golden
CYCLE OF HATRED
by Keith R. A. DeCandido
WAR OF THE ANCIENTS:
BOOK ONE—THE WELL OF
ETERNITY
by Richard A. Knaak
WAR OF THE ANCIENTS:
BOOK TWO—THE DEMON
SOUL
by Richard A. Knaak
WAR OF THE ANCIENTS: BOOK
THREE—THE SUNDERING
by Richard A. Knaak
DAY OF THE DRAGON
by Richard A. Knaak
LORD OF THE CLANS
by Christie Golden
THE LAST GUARDIAN
by Jeff Grubb
DIABLO®
THE SIN WAR: BOOK ONE—
BIRTHRIGHT
by Richard A. Knaak
THE SIN WAR: BOOK TWO—
SCALES OF THE SERPENT
by Richard A. Knaak
THE SIN WAR: BOOK THREE—
THE VEILED PROPHET
by Richard A. Knaak
MOON OF THE SPIDER
by Richard A. Knaak
THE KINGDOM OF SHADOW
by Richard A. Knaak
THE BLACK ROAD
by Mel Odom
LEGACY OF BLOOD
by Richard A. Knaak
Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. StarCraft and Blizzard Entertainment are trademarks or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., in the U.S. and/or other countries.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Gallery Books hardcover edition April 2011
GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon and Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Interior art by Paul Kwon (1), Gerald Brom (2), Paul Kwon (3), and John Polidora (4).
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4165-5085-3
ISBN 978-1-4391-7271-1 (ebook)
This book is dedicated to the legions of StarCraft fans, who waited so long and so patiently. I must also thank the wonderful folks at Blizzard with whom it is always a privilege to interact, to my former editor Jamie Cerota Costas, and my current editor Ed Schlesinger. You are all fantastic! I look forward to many more projects.
And finally, it’s dedicated to “Butch and Sundance,” Paul Newman and Robert Redford, whose cheerful presences helped guide its writing. A special nod of thanks to Paul Newman, who led a life that serves as an inspiration: a life dedicated to his craft and to helping others. Thanks, Butch. We miss you.
Content
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Starcraft Timeline
CHAPTER ONE
BADLANDS, NEW SYDNEY
2494
The sun was a merciless yellow eye glaring down at a landscape of rock, hard-baked Earth, the hardiest of scrub brushes and the most stubborn of life-forms. There was not a single cloud in the fiercely blue sky to mitigate the intensity of its gaze, and the promise of relief in the form of nightfall was many hours away.
Movement cut through this barren desert; silvery and sleek, it looked almost like water flowing through a valley, but it was nothing so natural or pleasant. The swollen sun’s rays glinted harshly on the metallic train as it twined, snake-like, soaring through the badlands toward its final destination, where it would disgorge its precious cargo.
Two men waited in the cool shelter of a cave, watching the silvery serpentine object. They were silent, but it was an easy silence, and the only sound was the inhalation of one of them as he sucked smoke from a glowing cigar one final time, dropped the stogie, and crushed it out with a single step from a massive boot.
“Let’s go ride that pony,” said Tychus Findlay. Next to him, not in any way a small man but looking comparatively tiny next to the giant that was Tychus, was a shaggy-haired, bearded man who was already sitting astride a vulture hoverbike. He gave his friend a wicked grin.
“Move your ass, then, slowpoke,” he said, kicked the bike into life, and charged down the sloping ravine toward the maglev train. Tychus swore, jumped on his own bike, and took after Jim Raynor at a reckless speed.
It was at times like this that Jim Raynor, former marine lance corporal, proud citizen of the Confederacy and erstwhile farm boy, felt most alive. At the speed at which he was urging the vulture, the wind cooled his face so that the oppressive heat vanished. He felt like a wolf hunting down his prey, except the purpose of today’s adventure was not the death of a living being but the death of the empty state of Raynor’s and Tychus’s wallets. This was a cargo train, not a passenger train, and inside its silvery innards was—if Tychus’s tip was right, and Jim had every reason to believe it would be—a very lovely, very large safe filled with Confederate credits.
“Why, it’s a rescue mission, Jimmy,” Tychus had rumbled, his blue eyes dancing with good humor as he had filled Raynor in on the p
lan. “Those poor creds—they’d just be condemned to lining the pockets of some Old Families who don’t need any more money. Or else put to some nefarious scheme that could hurt somebody. It’s our duty—hell, it’s our calling—to liberate them creds to where they could do something that really mattered.”
“Like buying us drinks, women, and steak dinners.”
“That’s a good start.”
“You’ve got a heart of gold, Tychus. I’ve never met such an altruistic man in my life. I got goddamn tears in my eyes.”
“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Jim grinned as he recalled the conversation. He and Tychus were behind the train, catching up to it quickly. He stayed right and Tychus veered left. Tychus crossed over the maglev tracks, adjusting the magnetic frequency on his bike to compensate so that he, like the train itself, could cross easily. Jim increased his speed, moving alongside the maglev until the right car came into view. He and Tychus had spent hours analyzing all kinds of transportation vessels over the last few years, sometimes simply from blueprints or images, but usually up close and personal, as they were about to do now. They had “liberated” other credits before—it seemed to them like hundreds of thousands over the years, although the liberated credits never seemed to stay with them very long. That was all right too. It was part of the ride that life had become.
“Careful, boy. Don’t move ahead too fast,” came Tychus’s gravelly voice in his ear. “I ain’t coming back for you if you drop in on the wrong car.”
Raynor grinned. “Right. You’d just take all the creds and hightail it out to Wicked Wayne’s.”
“Damn straight. So hit the mark.”
Timing was crucial. Raynor sped up even more, glancing down at his controls to see the small dot that represented Tychus doing the same. He knew they were mirror images of each other after doing this as often as they had over the past five years.
“Upsy-daisy,” Tychus said. In unison, they hit the lifts and rose vertically so the vultures—customized within an inch of their lives—were now flying, if not as high as their namesakes, then at least slightly higher than the train’s roof. The uniquely modified hoverbikes landed, bumped the top of the train, landed again, and the two men had them clamped and locked down within half a second—the magnetic locks also custom-installed for exactly this purpose. They leaped off the bikes. Next step: getting to the back of the car, climbing down, opening the door, and seeing who comprised the welcoming committee.
At that precise instant, the train took a bend and brought them right into a crosscurrent of wind. The sudden sharp movement threw Raynor off balance. He fell hard and started sliding toward the edge. Tychus’s gloved hand shot out and grabbed the neck of Raynor’s vest while he threw himself down, reached up, and seized the secured vulture.
Raynor jolted to a halt. Adrenaline shot through him, but not fear. He’d done this before, too, and he was prepared. He took a second to get his bearings, then pointed. One hand on the bike, the other clutching Jim, the bigger man moved Raynor about a third of a meter until he was facing the end of the car rather than the side.
“Hold my legs!” Raynor shouted to Tychus. Tychus grunted, releasing the vest collar, then grabbing first Jim’s belt and then his ankle as Raynor slid forward.
Raynor pressed a button and activated the powerful magnets embedded in his vest. Between these and Tychus’s near-bone-crunching grip on his ankle, Raynor wasn’t going anywhere. Normally he’d try to drop down on the small platform at the back of the car, but the train was still going through what seemed to be a damned wind tunnel, and time was of the essence once they’d landed with what had to have been an audible thump on the roof of the thing. Raynor stretched forward far enough so he could get one arm down and felt about quickly but blindly. There it was: the top of the door. Not the ideal place to plant the explosive, but it would have to do.
He fished out the small device from his pocket, tapped in the activation code, slapped it on the door as far down as he could put it, deactivated the mag grips, and yelled, “Pull back! Pull back!”
Tychus yanked him back so hard, Jim felt the exposed part of his arms burn from the friction. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t mind too much, as he was safely away from the explosion, which shot black smoke and bits of debris in all directions.
“Don’t suppose you got anything resembling a look-see?”
“Nope,” Jim said. Still lying down, he grabbed his pistol from his holster, shot Tychus a grin, and said, “What? You scared of dropping in on a bunch of Confederate guards?”
“Not me, little girl,” Tychus said. His own weapon was strapped to his back. He reached and pulled it out: an AGR-14 that looked as mean as Tychus himself. “Let’s go.”
Tychus dropped to his belly beside Jim, and they let the very speed of the train move them forward. They slid to the edge, and at the last minute each man shot out a hand, gripped the top of the train, and flipped down, somersaulting into the cabin, ready to attack.
They were greeted by no one.
“Aw, shit, Jimmy,” Tychus said. “This ain’t the car with the safe!”
Indeed it was not. It was crammed to the brim with cargo: instruments, statuary, furniture, all carefully wrapped up and secured. No doubt there was a fortune here, but it was nothing they could do anything about.
Jim half expected Tychus to slap the back of his head, but the man was already moving forward to the end of the car. “You were supposed to have done your research,” Tychus muttered.
“I did,” Raynor said. “Seventeenth car. They must have changed—”
Raynor was following, pistol out but pointed down, when a curious shape caught his eye. Tychus was wrestling with the door, so he permitted himself to pull back the protective covering.
His eyes went wide.
“We’re gonna have to blast this one too, looks like—Jimmy, what the hell are you doing back there?”
Raynor paid him no heed. He tugged more, and the covering slipped away.
“I think I’m in love,” he breathed as his eyes took in the beauty of the antique in front of him.
“You say that every time we visit Wayne’s,” Tychus muttered, but swung his head back to see what had Jim so distracted. “What the hell is that?”
Jim felt as though he were having a religious experience, and indeed the item he was gazing at worshipfully reminded him of the old-style stained-glass windows he had seen images of. It was a piece of furniture, though, huge and solid and curved at the top, like a window. Glass of bright colors covered its front, and if it was what Raynor thought it was, those curving tubes of glass would light up when the thing was activated. And inside—oh, inside was where the treasures were.
“I’m not sure—I’ve never seen one before, but I think … I’m pretty sure it’s a jukebox,” Raynor said, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the curving metal and wood and glass construct.
“I am no more enlightened than I was before, Jimmy,” Tychus growled, “and time is wasting.”
“A jukebox is an old, old method of playing music,” Raynor explained. “Music used to be pressed into vinyl disks called records. There might be up to a thousand songs in here—songs that no one’s heard in maybe a couple hundred years.”
“You and your old-fashioned crap. First the Colt, now this.” They had done one robbery, early on, of the summer home of one of the lesser Old Families of the Confederacy. The place had been oozing valuable antiques, and when Raynor had stumbled across a Colt Single Action Army revolver hundreds of years old, he’d had to have it. It went with him constantly, although he had more contemporary weapons as well. Getting bullets made for the antique was expensive, so he rarely fired the thing. He just liked the feel of it on his hip. Tychus had rolled his eyes then the same way he was rolling them now. “Nice history lesson, Professor. Now, let’s get our asses outta here. We still got a safe to blow.”
Tychus was right. Raynor gave the old machine a final pat
and turned to follow Tychus.
Finally, with a muttered grunt and a well-placed heave of his shoulder, Findlay opened the door, stepped out, placed the second explosive device on the door of the car ahead of them, and then ducked back into the car with Jim. Both of them dove for cover as the device detonated.
Raynor grimaced, for two reasons. One, they usually only brought four sets of explosive devices with them: one to blow the door, one to blow whatever safe they were trying to open, and two as backups. Which they had just used. There had better be only one last door between them and their goal, or else the Confederate credits would not get liberated after all. Two, they’d have to make a stand here, in this room, and the jukebox might get hit. He found he was unreasonably distressed by the thought.
Even before the smoke cleared, the first few rounds of gauss rifle fire came through the blown-open doors, spraying down the contents of the room. There was a clang as metal struck and pierced metal, and pieces of wood splintered and flew up in the air. Crouched down behind what seemed to be an upright piano, Raynor didn’t dare raise his head to see if his jukebox had taken any damage. He’d find out soon enough.
Tychus, with a roar, rapidly closed the distance between himself and the guards and began slamming them with the butt of his rifle. They were taken completely off guard, having expected an in-kind firefight and not anticipating that they would be rushed by an apparent madman. At such close quarters, they couldn’t fire lest they harm one another, and Tychus and Jim whooped as they either knocked the hapless fellows unconscious or tossed them off the train through the blown-open doors. Tychus kicked the rifle out of the final guard’s hands, gave him two quick punches, one with each hand, and then picked up the large form and chucked him out. He turned back, grinning and exaggeratedly dusting off his hands. Jim shot him an answering grin, then looked about, making sure that—
It had survived unscathed. Raynor let out a breath of relief and then realized something. Something he was going to have to tell Tychus, and that his friend would definitely not like. But that was later.
Now they surged forward, stepping over bodies to jump into the next car. There it was: a huge safe, big as life, a gleaming metallic box that filled up half the car.
StarCraft II: Devil's Due Page 1
