StarCraft II: Devil's Due

by Christie Golden

The voice did not belong to any of the four beauties currently sharing his bed. Tychus opened one eye.

  Staring down at him was what seemed like a walking cadaver. Impossibly lean and gaunt, with eyes that were large and intense, the man stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Several responses went through Tychus’s head, but all of them involved disturbing the ladies, who seemed quite comfy where they were, thank you very much. So he chose the one option that didn’t disturb them. He blinked at the man, sighed, and languidly reached for a cigar and a lighter. Daisy and Annabelle shifted slightly but otherwise did not seem to be awake. Tychus blew a long stream of smoke upward.

  “You got about two seconds to tell me who you are and what you want ‘fore I get real nasty.”

  “Who I am is not important,” Cadaver said in a thin, reedy voice. He did not appear at all intimidated. “I am in the employ of one Scutter O’Banon, and he sent me with a proposal.”

  Tychus continued puffing. The girls were starting to awaken but, taking their cue from him, merely stared at the newcomer.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Daisy sleepily.

  “Well, honey, that remains to be seen,” Tychus said. “Tell me more about this proposal.”

  “You’ve caught Mr. O’Banon’s attention, Mr. Findlay. You and your colleague, Mr. Raynor. You’ve managed to impress him, and he’s not a man who impresses easily. He’d like for you to join his organization. He thinks you’d be very valuable assets, and he would treat you accordingly.”

  “Well,” Tychus said, sitting up and letting the sheets fall around his waist. “That’s a mighty flattering thing to say. Mr. O’Banon is quite the powerful fellow, ain’t he?” He scratched his belly absently. “Now … I respect power. I really do. But you know what I respect more?” He waited.

  The man gave an exaggerated sigh. “No, Mr. Findlay. What do you respect more?”

  “Money.”

  Cadaver nodded. “Mr. O’Banon understands that sort of respect. He intends to give you quite a bit of money. Quite a bit.”

  “How much?”

  “As I’m sure you can understand, I cannot reveal figures, because we do not know what sort of assignments Mr. O’Banon will have for you. Let me put it this way.” He pointed at the girls, who were lazily listening to the exchange. “You could buy and sell these … floozies … two dozen times over.”

  The pretty faces were marred with frowns as the girls, sleepy as they were, realized they had just been insulted. Tychus patted Daisy’s head and chuckled.

  “Well, that sounds right fine, but I’ll need to discuss it with my business partner before making any kind of commitment. I’m sure Mr. O’Banon will understand that. Now, you got about three seconds to get out.”

  The man looked confused. “I will relay your response, but why three seconds?”

  “’Cause I need to pee about a liter’s worth, Son.” Tychus made as if to move the sheet.

  “Oh … of course. Please excuse me.” Cadaver, his lips turned down in disgust and his pale cheeks coloring in embarrassment, turned and hastened for the door, Tychus’s booming laughter following him down the hall.

  * * *

  Raynor was in a foul mood when he stomped up the stairs to Wicked Wayne’s. He needed a drink, a woman, and entertainment, not necessarily in that order. The daytime bartender, Keifer Riley, glanced up and saw Jim’s expression. A wise man, Keifer didn’t even try to engage Raynor in conversation, just slid him a beer across the bar. Jim expressed his appreciation with a grunt and chugged half the beer immediately.

  The place was oddly darker during the day than at night. Once the sun went down, spotlights on the dancers and the illumination of the several video games provided quite a bit of light. During the day the windows were shuttered, and the only light came through the thin slits in the blinds and from the small lamps at the gambling tables. Over in a corner, though, he saw movement, and a small glowing orange-red dot, and he knew before his friend spoke that Tychus had taken up residence there.

  “Grab me one while you’re up,” Tychus said. Jim did so and plunked the amber bottle down in front of Findlay. Three dead soldiers were lined up beside the remains of a meal that would have fed any two other men. Tychus pushed the plate and the empty bottles aside when Jim sat down.

  He blew out a long stream of smoke, then eyed Raynor. “Where you been?”

  Jim scowled. “Personal business.”

  Tychus nodded and chewed on the stogie for a moment before continuing. “I had some business come my way this morning.”

  Jim had a dim memory of Tychus leading—could it really have been four?—women upstairs sometime last night. “Personal business?”

  “Well, one might say it was, considering the man came into my room while I was surrounded by lovelies,” Tychus said, feigning thoughtfulness.

  “Holy shit, really?”

  “Yep.” Tychus took another drag, and the ember glowed like an orange eye. “Man’s got balls, that’s for sure.”

  Jim was forced to agree. “So, what did he want?”

  Tychus’s eyes crinkled in a grin. “Us, Jimmy boy. Apparently our fame is beginning to spread. Not that that surprises me none. You knew somebody’d be hollering like a little girl after we liberated those creds.”

  Jim grinned, remembering the rabbity Woodley. “Have a lead on a job for us?”

  “Not … exactly. Fellow didn’t give his name, but he told me who he works for. Says his boss is mighty interested in forming a mutually beneficial relationship. Promised it’d pay well. Very well.”

  Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Tychus, after the day I’ve had, I’m really not interested in hearing about being somebody’s puppet.”

  “Aw, hell, Jim, I ain’t even named the guy.”

  “So name him already.”

  Tychus leaned forward. Raynor did as well. Tychus brought his mouth close to Jim’s ear and whispered, “Scutter O’Banon.”

  Jim gave his friend an incredulous look. “Fekk that. You know what kind of a reputation that man has?”

  Tychus nodded.

  “Well, then, you know my answer. That man—” Jim realized his voice had risen and brought it back down. “That man deals in the worst kind of shit. The things connected with his organization—hits, drug running—Tychus, there are predatory animals that ain’t that vicious. It ain’t just stealing or even killing.”

  Tychus rumbled noncommittally, his eyes still fastened on Jim. “So?”

  “So I don’t want to get mixed up in that. We danced close enough to that edge when we went AWOL. This guy sounds like Vanderspool, only about six hundred times worse. The bastard’s … I don’t know, Tychus … evil. I didn’t get into this to work for some thug, or to become a criminal.”

  Tychus ground out his cigar and laughed, long and low. He reached for his beer. “Hell, Jimmy, what the fekk do you think you are?”

  For an instant, Jim almost lost it. His teeth clenched and, unbidden, his hands curled into fists. Tychus eyed him steadily. Jim thought of his mother’s tired but sweet face. His father’s innate decency.

  Those memories were chased away when Jim thought about how he, Tychus, and the rest of the Devils had been slated for resocialization by their unit commander, Colonel Javier Vander-spool. The once-elite and valued unit was, in the end, used as cannon fodder, chewed up and spat out. Betrayed. But then he thought about how much sheer fun he and Tychus had had over these last few years. He thought about the Colt and the jukebox, and his lips twitched with an unbidden grin.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said.

  “Fekk yeah, I’m right.”

  “Well, then”—Raynor lifted his half-finished beer—“to criminals … who work on their own.”

  “To criminals who don’t need a space mob.” Tychus clinked his bottle of beer against Raynor’s and then drained it down. “So, if we’re not throwing in with Scutter’s merry band, I got an idea of what we should be doing next.”

 
Jim sighed inwardly. “You spent your share already? We just got the creds!”

  Tychus shrugged his massive shoulders. “Settling old debts, taking care of four girls for several days, and lubricatin’ all of Wicked Wayne’s adds up, Jim,” he said with mock seriousness. Jim grinned and shook his head.

  “Daisy says you still ain’t paid her,” he said.

  “Daisy always says that. But yeah, I’m getting low. You know I hate being in one place too long, and besides, ol’ Butler is gonna come sniffing around here eventually. He always does.”

  They differed on that. Jim cast a longing look around the bar/ dance hall/gaming establishment/pleasure pit that was Wicked Wayne’s. This place was oddly comforting to him. It was home when he was on this planet, and he preferred it to most other comparable places he’d visited. He’d be happy to hang out here for much longer than another night or two. But Tychus was right about one thing: Marshal Butler usually checked out Wayne’s every time Jim and Tychus pulled something on New Sydney. No one had ever ratted them out, and they’d either been tipped off that the marshal was coming or had the blind luck to just not be here.

  “All right,” Jim sighed. “What’s your plan?”

  “Got a lead that Barton Station is going to be getting a shipment of crystals in later this evening.” Tychus had leads everywhere. When Jim commented on the astounding number of contacts the man had—and that he’d yet to see any of them turn on him—Tychus had rumbled, “You forget, Jimmy, I been at this for a lot longer than you have. I got the nose for ’em. You’ll get it too.”

  Raynor wasn’t so sure.

  “Well, that’s mighty fine, Tychus, but the fact that it’s the damned Horley Barton Space Station would kinda indicate that it’s in space. And you and I don’t have a ship to get into space.”

  “Not yet we don’t. But I know where to find two little planet-hoppers just begging to be liberated.”

  “Planet-hopper” was the term for a short-range spacecraft. That would work well enough, Jim thought. “Oh?” he asked Tychus. “Who is keeping them prisoner?”

  “Marshal Wilkes Butler and his buddies.”

  Jim stared, then threw back his dark head and laughed. “You embarrassed poor old Butler pretty good just a few days ago,” he said. “This is really gonna ruffle his feathers.”

  Tychus grinned. “But ain’t that fun?”

  Jim pretended to consider, then drawled, “Well, I reckon it is.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  RED MESA, NEW SYDNEY

  RED MESA COUNTY MUNICIPAL

  ENFORCEMENT DEPARTMENT

  It had not been the best of weeks for Marshal Wilkes Butler.

  New Sydney was, if not exactly a hive of criminal activity, certainly a fringe world that was known to be friendly to those who were not necessarily on the right side of the law. Butler and his men were therefore kept busy. He had been offered a transfer to Tarsonis two years ago and had turned it down on the belief that he could make more of a difference here. Crime in a place like Tarsonis was much different than here on a fringe world, on the outer edge of the reach of government and politics. There were fewer … entanglements. Butler was a man who liked things as clear as possible. He preferred to be unencumbered by shades of gray. He did what he did, and did it well, and, while having no trouble reporting to the sector’s magistrate as was his duty, preferred to have no master other than the law itself in his day-to-day activities. In Tarsonis, nearly everyone had his fingers in someone else’s pie. There were deals, and payoffs, and looking the other way.

  Butler never looked the other way. There was keeping to the law, and there was breaking it, and heaven help any lawbreakers who happened to take their activities within his jurisdiction.

  The wall in the entryway to the Red Mesa County Municipal Enforcement Department had been plastered with wanted posters when Butler first arrived. Now large patches of the wall were bare, save for pushpins trapping small bits of paper. He paused and glanced briefly at the faces. He knew them all: names, ages, criminal records, contacts, bounty fees. His eyes narrowed as they fell on two in particular.

  The blunt, ugly mug of Tychus Findlay stared out at him with squinty eyes. The same eyes that had squinted at Butler while Findlay had deliberately shot at an injured man. Beside Tychus was Jim Raynor. This man did not look like a criminal, but his record gave the lie to his otherwise genial appearance. Butler did not know which one was the brains of the outfit, though obviously Findlay was the brawn. He imagined Raynor, but Tychus Findlay was no stereotypical stupid thug, either. Butler suspected both of them were highly intelligent, even if they tended to take outrageous risks. That made his job all the harder.

  He thought back to the chase Findlay had led him on a few days ago. They had been seven against two at the outset, then Findlay had too neatly gotten them going after him alone. Seven. One by one they had fallen, victims of the chase through the treacherous badlands. Three of the men were still in the hospital; one of them had just come out of a brief coma. The rest were in various stages of being walking wounded, and only two had come back to even shortened shifts. He was grateful Findlay and Raynor had not added murder to their already-existing charges of theft and manslaughter. It was a lucky break—for them.

  Butler passed a hand over his face, his spirits briefly lifted as he rubbed his thick mustache. Rumor had it they were still planetside. He didn’t think they had any vessels. Sooner or later they would be too cocky, or forget about some key element, or trust the wrong person.

  And then he would have them.

  He opened the door to his office and blinked in surprise. A woman was standing there, her back to him, silhouetted by the window. It was an enticing silhouette: she had a perfect hourglass figure, a short skirt, and long legs. As she heard the door open, she turned around and stepped away from the window.

  Butler swallowed hard. Her face was exquisite, with pale skin, high cheekbones, and green eyes. Red hair tumbled down her shoulders. Her breasts strained against the buttons of her dress as if the fabric were a hated jailer. Her legs seemed to go on forever and ended in dainty feet in stiletto heels. She smiled at him, full red lips parting to reveal even white teeth.

  “Uh …,” he managed, “may I help you, miss?”

  The smile widened. She put her purse on the desk, moved over toward him with the grace of a big cat, and closed the door.

  “I don’t—”

  She turned around and draped her arms about his neck, smiling up at him. Her perfume made him slightly giddy.

  “My name’s Daisy,” she said, in a sultry voice, “and I am here all morning because those two fine, upstanding gentlemen, Tychus Findlay and James Raynor, felt that you should have some kind of … recompense … for your stolen little ships.”

  Butler swore, firmly removed her hands from his shoulders, and pushed her away as he raced for his desk. He slammed a hand down on the intercom, and his cultured voice was heard throughout the station.

  “This is Marshal Butler. All officers available, to the depot. Now.”

  Daisy sighed as he raced past her out the door. Halfway out, Butler paused, stuck his head back in, and fixed her with an intense gaze.

  “Stay right here.” Her knowing laughter followed him out. He ignored her.

  Raynor and Findlay. Damn their eyes.

  By the time he got there and had hopped off his hoverbike, all the officers in the area had been alerted and had arrived. The building’s alarms were wailing, and the poor fellow whose job it was to open up in the morning looked like he was waiting to be shot in the head.

  Butler would have liked to have obliged, but he wanted to shoot Raynor and Findlay even more. Besides, on this planet, men who were willing to work on the right side of the law for the paltry sum of credits the government parsimoniously doled out were few and far between. He couldn’t lose any of them—not even the idiots.

  He didn’t waste time with “What happened here?” or even “How did they get in?” The answer to t
he first he already knew, and the answer to the second was irrelevant at the moment. Instead he asked, “What did they get?”

  “Two planet-hoppers, sir,” the man said. He looked slightly less nervous, but only slightly.

  “Damn it.” Now they did have ships.

  “Any leads, sir?” asked his deputy, Rett Coolidge. Rett had the distinction of being the last one Findlay had injured in the recent chase and had come perilously close to losing a certain part of his anatomy that most males were extremely partial to.

  Butler smiled bitterly beneath his mustache. “Tychus Find-lay and Jim Raynor,” he said.

  Rett swore violently. “What makes you say that? Not that I don’t believe it.”

  “They had the audacity to send a girl to serve as ‘recompense.’” It was really too bad he couldn’t have the girl arrested. While prostitution—at least by that name—wasn’t legal on New Sydney, exotic dancing, right down to performing buck naked, was. And she hadn’t said that she was offering her body. She likely would, when questioned, say that Jim and Tychus had hired her to go “dance” for the good marshal. But she’d have to be one hell of a dancer for her performance to pay for two planet-hoppers.

  “Go to my office,” he told Rett. “Hopefully there’s a woman still there.”

  Rett raised an eyebrow, and Butler scowled at him. “Come on, Rett, she’s one of Findlay’s and Raynor’s girls. Find out what she knows. We can hold her on associating with known criminals if we have to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir!” It was the security chief of the depot, and his face looked considerably brighter than it had a few minutes ago. “The transponders affixed to every government vehicle are still working. Looks like they couldn’t disable them.”

  Hope flickered in Butler’s heart. “Well, cough it up, son. Where are they?”

  “They’re about forty kilometers due west of here. They’re not moving.”

  Butler frowned beneath his mustache. Why steal planet-hoppers if you were just going to stay stationary planetside? The hope died back down but did not vanish altogether.