“The money you gave us wouldn’t buy a shot of whiskey on a backwater planet,” Jim said. “Seems to me you looked it over and were just fine a few minutes ago. If anything, you got the better deal. We ain’t looking for trouble.”
“Oh, but we are.” The men drew pistols and advanced. Jim and Tychus had theirs in their hands instantly.
“I’d say you found it,” came a voice.
A man had entered the alley. He was tall and painfully thin, looking like a corpse come to life. There was the unmistakable sound of weapons being cocked, and then at least half a dozen armed and armored men crowded out most of what illumination came in through the alley entrance. The kids scattered like insects when a rock is overturned, and Jim and Tychus’s rescuers let them go. The adults, however, slowly put down their weapons and placed their hands behind their heads.
“Cadaver,” said Tychus bluffly. “Damn good timing.”
“Hello again, Mr. Findlay,” said the man Tychus had aptly nicknamed Cadaver. “I think you gentlemen should apologize to Mr. Findlay and Mr. Raynor here. Also … I thought you were limited to working in Paradise and not permitted here in Dead-man’s Port. I’m certain that was the understanding we reached.”
The men immediately began uttering all kinds of remorseful words, quite literally begging for forgiveness. Their voices were shaking. Jim was thoroughly confused. Tychus obviously recognized the man, and—
And then he understood.
“Shall I let them go, Mr. Findlay?” asked Cadaver. “I’m quite sure they’ll never trouble you or Mr. Raynor again during your stay here.”
“What do you think, Jim?” asked Tychus. He was obviously enjoying himself a great deal. “Were the apologies enough, or shall we have my friend here dispose of these troublemakers?”
Jim regarded the men again. They looked terrified. “Seems to me like there’s enough litter in this place that we shouldn’t go making more things to stink it up,” said Jim. “I say let them go.”
“Today’s your lucky day, gentlemen,” said Cadaver. “Leave your weapons and any cash you have, though, all right? Let us know you’re sincere in your repentance.”
The men scrambled to obey, dropping surprising quantities and varieties of weapons and money. At Cadaver’s nod, they fled. There was no other word to describe it. Tychus laughed.
“A fella could get used to this. We’re royalty here, Jimmy, as long as we’re with O’Banon. Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Jim gave him a smile he didn’t feel. “That was mighty fine timing, Mr….?”
“Baines. Edward Baines.”
“I like Cadaver better,” Tychus said bluntly. “I’ll just keep calling you that.”
Baines shrugged. “As you wish, Mr. Findlay. I’m guessing that right now might be a good time for you to meet Mr. O’Banon?”
“I don’t think we have any other pressing engagements,” said Tychus. “Lead on.”
Cadaver did. The six armed escorts accompanied them through the seedy streets to a different section of the port. Here, a sleek little system runner that had room for four was waiting for them. It was plush and comfortable inside and, to Tychus’s amusement and approval, had a minibar. Jim and Tychus sipped some extremely fine whiskey while being granted a pleasantly distant view of the city. The pilot kept his helmet on and said very few words; Jim would likely never recognize the man if he saw him again.
They left the filthy city behind, and Jim realized that it wasn’t quite the entire planet that was covered in derelict hulks—just most of it. The sea of metal thinned out, becoming, if not lush forested paradise, at least areas of dirt and grass and what looked like actual bodies of water.
“I’ll be damned,” Tychus said. “Looks like a whole other planet out here.”
“It is,” Cadaver answered. “This is Scutter O’Banon’s world now.”
Jim shook his head slowly, watching this “new world” unfold below him. Up ahead was what seemed at first glance to be a small corporate town. He realized quickly that all this indeed belonged to one man: Scutter O’Banon. It was his personal, heavily secured complex, with nearly a dozen buildings, laser-activated security measures, private swimming pools—plural—and even what looked to be a lavish garden and orchard. At the center of the sprawling complex was a house, if you could call something that mammoth by so humble a name. Jim quickly amended it to “mansion” and then wondered if there was anything more elaborate than that. His friend—his late friend—Ryk Kydd had once described one of the homes he used to live in. Jim felt that six of Kydd’s mansions on various planets could easily fit under the roof of this one.
He thought of the children—thieves, doubtless, but probably also hungry—and of the terrible living conditions endured by those in Deadman’s Port and in the ironically named Paradise he had heard tell of. All this wealth … for one man’s pleasure.
There was, of course, a private landing field and, of course, about ten thousand uniformed security men and women awaiting their arrival. Cadaver whisked them through the process quickly. A small, old-fashioned groundcar then took them on the last leg to the mansion itself.
The driver took them and Cadaver along a long, well-paved drive through dozens of tall, meticulously pruned trees that swayed in the gentle wind. At last they pulled up in front of the mansion. An actual butler arrived, dressed in formal attire, to greet them. He seemed to be in his early to mid-fifties. He did not have a single hair—black, turning to what would eventually become iron gray—out of place. Jim felt very grubby as he exited the vehicle. Pale but sharp blue eyes looked him up and down, and the man’s lips barely moved as he greeted them.
“Welcome, Mr. Findlay. Mr. Raynor. My name is Phillip Randall. Mr. O’Banon anticipated that you might enjoy a nice hot bath or shower and a change of clothes, and has prepared for your arrival. Please, follow me.”
Jim and Tychus exchanged glances, then followed Randall into the yawning entry hall. Old wood gleamed, and trophy heads of various kinds of wildlife stared down at them with baleful, glassy eyes. They didn’t recognize some of the kills, but they did see the distinctive gray, purple-spotted, feline face of a bengalaas and the black-tusked head of an ursadon. Someone had gone hunting on several planets.
They walked for what seemed at least a mile until they reached a curving staircase, then walked another mile until they came to two adjoining rooms.
Randall unlocked the door to the first one with an old skeleton key. “I hope it is to your liking.”
“Sweet mother of mercy,” Tychus muttered at one point. The room was fully as big as any three rooms at Wicked Wayne’s. Afternoon light slanted in thick as honey, illuminating a lavish bedroom with a canopied bed and gorgeous furnishings. There was an adjoining sitting room with a sofa and a cheerfully burning fire.
“There is fresh fruit, mineral water, and spirits available for your consumption,” Randall said, indicating a sideboard.
Tychus looked at the bed. “Bed looks kinda empty. No one in it?”
Randall didn’t bat an eye. “Mr. O’Banon was uncertain as to your tastes in that department, Mr. Findlay. Once you have let him know such, I am sure arrangements will be made promptly.”
“Fekk, I like this, Jimmy,” Tychus said. “How about smokes?”
“There is a humidor next to the bed,” Randall said. “I am certain you will find something there to your liking.”
“So am I, Randall, my good man,” Tychus said.
“The bathing area is on the far side of the sitting room,” Randall continued. “The closets have a selection of clothing that should be sized to fit. Mr. Findlay, this is your room. Mr. Raynor, accompany me, please. Someone will be checking in with you in about an hour. Please ring the bell by the bed if you require anything else, Mr. Findlay.”
“Yeah, one blonde, one brunette, one redhead,” Tychus laughed.
“That might take more than an hour.”
Tychus lightly punched the smaller man in the arm. “I was
just kidding with you.”
Randall met his gaze evenly. “I wasn’t, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I should like to get Mr. Raynor properly settled.”
“Go for it,” Tychus said, already turning away and starting to tug off his dirty, sweaty, bloodstained shirt as Randall pulled the heavy wooden door closed behind him.
As Jim stepped into the shower in his own luxurious bathroom, turning on gold-plated faucets and feeling the most heavenly hot water cascading down on him from several different directions, he found himself analyzing Scutter O’Banon’s home. Gorgeous, yes. Filled with antiques, yes. But there was—it was hard to put his finger on it—something … excessive about it. It was too much. Several antiques where one elegant one would have done. Dozens of alcoholic beverages to choose from instead of one or two specifically selected ones.
His parents had had a name for such people: “quick-made.” People who got too much money too fast, usually from illicit and shadowy activities. They had more credits than taste, and felt a need to show it off so that others would be intimidated. His family was poor but honest, and everything they had, they had earned quite literally by the sweat of their brows.
Raynor thought of the coordinates on his fone and wished that he had had a chance to find out what Myles wanted. But right now, staying alive was more important. And he had to admit, enjoying a hot shower and fine liquor while doing so didn’t hurt anything.
It felt better than he had imagined, and he realized just how sweaty, dirty, and beaten up he had been in the encounter. And then the image of Ryk Kydd, held aloft by a cybernetic hand crushing his throat, slammed into his mind.
Raynor’s hands crept up to his temples, pressing hard, as if he could squeeze the memories out of his mind like he thought he had done. Prior to the recent disturbing events, he hadn’t thought about Ryk, or Harnack, or any of the old Heaven’s Devils in much detail for years. Life had moved too fast for memories. But the brutal encounter with Ryk Kydd’s killer had hauled the recollections up out of the deep pool in which they had lain sunken.
It was funny how a spoiled, if decent-natured, kid from an Old Family had become a sniper. And even stranger, why. Kydd had been drugged and essentially sold into the military. At first he’d tried so hard to get out. Jim remembered his earnestness. He wanted to go home, and who could blame him? But then things had started to change.
Kydd had had a gift. He could shoot and kill beautifully. It had been almost—artistic. And in killing the enemy, he had saved his friends. Death had brought life for those Ryk cared for.
And now, he, too, was dead. Not of old age or accident, but at the hands of a—
Jim Raynor was forced to lean against the ceramic tile walls and let the hot water beat down on him for a long time.
Jim and Tychus knew the name of Scutter O’Banon, but they had never seen the man before. All the same, Jim had a good idea of what to expect, judging from the man’s house, and he wasn’t disappointed. Randall showed them into a parlor where there was another small table crowded with delicacies, alcohol, and fine cigars. Jim sat down in one of the chairs and found he had to perch close to the edge or risk being swallowed by maroon upholstery.
They waited for several minutes, an old chrono ticking and Tychus’s puffing on the cigar the only sounds. Jim was not in the mood for any more liquor or food, and simply sat, trying and failing not to clasp and unclasp his hands nervously.
“Gentlemen, such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” said a voice.
It was oily, and calculating, and drawling, and smug; Jim disliked it upon hearing it. Nonetheless, his mom had drilled courtesy into him, and he rose and turned to greet his host.
And had to look down.
Scutter O’Banon was not quite a “little person,” as their late friend Hiram Feek had been, but Jim didn’t think he was much over five feet. He had black hair, slicked back and slightly perfumed, and a round face with small, sharp, deep-set eyes. A red mouth topped by a pencil-line mustache was currently holding a thin cigar that Tychus would have called “girlie.” Jim suspected, however, that Tychus probably would not opt to call it “girlie” to O’Banon’s face, given the situation.
O’Banon stuck out his hand. Jim shook it. The handshake was surprisingly firm, although the hand itself was soft and utterly lacking calluses.
“Good to meet you, too, Mr. O’Banon,” Jim said politely.
Tychus towered over the man as they shook hands. “Your fellow Cad—er, Baines certainly does have mighty fine timing. I appreciate his help and yours, and your fine hospitality.”
“You’re most welcome, Mr. Findlay.”
“Please—I tend to let people who’ve saved my hide call me Tychus. And this here’s Jimmy.”
“As you wish. You may call me Scutter, if you like. We’re all friends here.”
No we’re not, Jim thought but did not say. He shifted his seat slightly. Hot shower, nice clothes, good food, alcohol, and stogies aside, he wanted to be out of here as quickly as possible.
“Mighty kind of you,” Tychus continued. “I have to say, I was wondering just how it came to be that Baines was so quick to find us when we landed on your planet.”
Jim’s lips thinned at the phrase, but it was correct: this place was Scutter’s planet.
“Quite simple, really. Very few people have turned down the chance to do business with me and survived,” O’Banon said in that unctuous voice that made Jim’s skin crawl. It was not a threat; it was the truth, and Jim knew it. “I was sufficiently intrigued that I had sent word out among my people that if you ever landed at Deadman’s Port, I was to be notified immediately. I wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome.”
Suddenly Jim wondered what would have happened if they had told Cadaver they still weren’t interested. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
“I have been a longtime admirer of your work from afar, gentlemen,” O’Banon continued, gesturing to Randall to pour them all something rich and dark and tasty-looking.
“Well, that puts a smile on my face,” Tychus said. “We do take pride in that work.”
“As I have said before, I’d like for that fine work ethic to benefit us both. You’ve got a fair taste of the sort of thing I can offer you, and I know what you can do. I assume that since you have so kindly decided to call upon me, you are interested in pooling our resources.”
“That we are,” Tychus said.
“Why, I am so pleased to hear that.” He lifted his shot glass in salute.
Jim lifted his glass as well, taking a sip of something strong and thick and syrupy. It could, he thought, be a metaphor for their host. He didn’t much care for the stuff, whatever it was, and had to force himself to take another sip.
“I’m sure you have questions for me,” O’Banon said next.
Tychus downed the liquor in a single gulp, leaned back in the chair, and puffed on the cigar. “I do have one particular question, and it’s pressing on me mighty hard,” he said.
“Fire away.”
“We have ourselves a very nasty dog on our tails,” Tychus explained. “Hard to shake him. Was wondering if you might be able to do that for us. It would certainly free our minds to concentrate on doing a better job for you if we didn’t have a bounty hunter taking potshots at us.”
O’Banon’s red mouth pursed over his thin cigar. “Many of my employees come to me with tales of woe similar to yours. I’m sure we can throw this hound off your scent. Do you have any idea as to his identity?”
“Ezekiel Daun.”
O’Banon went very still. The room’s silence pressed in on them, and the ticking chrono sounded more like a ticking bomb to Jim.
“My, my, you do seem to have enemies in high places,” O’Banon said at last. He blew out a thin stream of smoke, fixing his gaze thoughtfully on a corner of the room, and rolled the tiny cigar in his blunt fingers. “No offense, but while your work is artful, it is hardly on the sort of scale that warrants such retaliation. Who could possibly
want you dead enough to spend the type of money needed to get Daun?”
Things had happened so fast and so brutally that Jim realized he hadn’t even had a chance to think about that. Tychus glanced over at him and Jim saw that the thought was only now occurring to him as well. He couldn’t think of anybody, and judging by Tychus’s expression, the bigger man couldn’t, either.
“Well, Scutter, you ask a mighty good question there. As we only recently found out that he was even interested in us, we haven’t had much time to think about who the hound master might be.”
“I see.” O’Banon tapped the ash off his cigar and took another sip of the sweet liquor. “I’m sure that you must understand that this changes the nature of our relationship somewhat. The situation has … evolved.”
Here we go, thought Jim.
“You don’t want to just come work for Scutter O’Banon. You need my protection. That’s something quite different. Our split is going to have to change slightly.” He took another puff. “In my favor.”
Tychus looked over at Jim, who shrugged. They were hip-deep in this now. The second that Daun’s name had come up, O’Banon knew he had them by the short-and-curlies, and that was that. They needed him, and he knew it, and that gave him the upper hand.
He tuned out the details, listening with only half an ear as Tychus and Scutter O’Banon hammered out the deal. Tychus was better at this stuff, anyway, and the whole thing had been his idea.
No, rather than listen to the finer points of negotiating, Jim found his mind focusing on one thing, and one thing only.
The question that Scutter O’Banon had asked … the question for which he and Tychus had no answer.
Who had hired Ezekiel Daun?
* * *
The holoprojector was enormous and required a rather burly man to maneuver it into the dimly lit room where their employer resided. The hoverdolly had small lights so they could see where they were going. Grunting with effort, the resoc eased the holoprojector off so that it would project its image directly in front of the huge metal box that surrounded their boss’s body except for his head, which was now wreathed in shadow, illuminated only sporadically by the brief flash of lights that chased each other along the metal enclosure.
StarCraft II: Devil's Due Page 11
