StarCraft II: Devil's Due

by Christie Golden

  “You’ll wake the dead with that clatter,” the protruding head was saying, his voice husky and echoing in the room. “Hurry, hurry, I want to see this now, not tomorrow!”

  “Of course, sir,” the resocialized servant said nervously. “We understand completely, and we’re almost ready.”

  “Almost, almost …,” the shadowed man growled.

  There was the flick of a switch. The figure of a tall, well-built man in a long duster with a neatly trimmed goatee stood large as life in front of the metal coffin.

  “Are they dead, Daun? Are they dead?” The raspy hollow voice was filled with anticipation.

  “Not yet.”

  A shriek of raw fury rent the tension-filled air in the room, and the resocs paled and began to sweat.

  “What? What? You useless sack of dog shit! You’re supposed to be the finest bounty hunter in the sector, and you still have not produced your main targets! I do not tolerate failure, Daun, I do not!”

  Daun’s brows drew together. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “I’d advise you to watch your tone and remember who you’re speakin’ to,” he said with a slight smile. “Sometimes killin’ ain’t just about money. Sometimes, and in fact quite a lot of the time, killin’s about a man’s honor. You wouldn’t want to step on ol’ Daun’s honor, now, would you?”

  There was a silence. The head protruding from the blinking casket turned away.

  “No. I wouldn’t.” A pause. “You are the best in the business, and I’m sure you will succeed. Please let me know when the mission is accomplished.”

  “Of course,” Daun replied. His goatee parted in a smile. “I’ll show you.”

  And without another word, the hologram faded away.

  “Get it out!” the man screamed. “Get it out of here now! Now!”

  Instantly the muscular resoc sprang into action, loading the holoprojector back on the dolly and removing the offending item from his master’s presence. As the one maneuvering the dolly stepped through the door that opened for him, another one entered. The newcomer stepped to the side of the coffin, monitoring the statistics that continuously rolled along a screen.

  “You too,” snarled the man. “I want to be alone. Get out of here!”

  “Yes, Colonel Vanderspool.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They had become gods.

  There really was no other way to put it. Word apparently spread fast in Deadman’s Port that James Raynor and Tychus Findlay were under Scutter O’Banon’s protection, and over the next few weeks the two former marines fought back grins as crowds often literally parted for them. They were able to belly up to any bar and get top-shelf drinks for the regular price, and sometimes on the house. The top gambling dens seemed to have a seat for them, and every “show” saw them at the best seats. Quieter offers were made, too, for more private shows.

  There was one particularly notable incident that Jim knew he would remember for a long, long time. Tychus had had more to drink than any man ought to be able to stomach and survive. Even so, to the eyes of those who didn’t know him well, he seemed little affected by the liquor. Jim knew better, and when Tychus pulled the stunt that had everyone talking for the next week, he alone was unsurprised.

  There was one place called The Silver Belle. It was one of the more respectable “female dancer” venues in Deadman’s Port—which was to say it was cleaner than most and the alcohol was pretty good. The girls, too, were cleaner than most, and also pretty good. They had a genuine show, with an actual script and something approaching decent acting. There were three shows that they cycled through regularly.

  This one was some sort of romantic tragedy. It vaguely reminded Jim of one of the classics … if the classics had simulated sex scenes and reasons for the characters’ clothes to conveniently become torn, damaged, or removed in some other fashion.

  They had shown up halfway into the first scene—which was fine, as they’d seen it before—and Tychus immediately went to use the facilities. Five minutes later Jim, who had been relaxing in his seat, sat bolt upright.

  Tychus Findlay stood on the stage, playing the lead male character. He wore a huge grin, and very little else. Jim groaned and placed his head in his hands. Over to the side, the manager looked slightly sick, but he was also holding an enormous sack of credits.

  Jim had to admit that Tychus wasn’t half bad. He knew the script—well, mostly. And when he didn’t, the other actors ad-libbed or shed their clothes for no particular reason, and the crowd seemed to approve. Jim found lots of reasons to get up and leave during particularly, uh, dramatic scenes.

  There was a party afterward, and later Jim was sorry that he had gotten so drunk that he remembered very little of it.

  Despite the giddiness of their new, elevated status, Jim found himself more subdued than one might have expected. Tychus, knowing Jim as long as he had, picked up on it and commented with his usual subtle, caring understanding as they watched a floor show.

  “You look like you’ve been drinking piss instead of fine booze,” he said.

  Jim, who had in fact been drinking quite a lot of fine booze, nodded somewhat unsteadily. “Yeah,” he said, “I reckon I do. Things don’t feel good, Tychus.”

  Tychus leaned back in the chair, watching the nearly naked women gyrating about two feet from them. He puffed one of Scutter’s cigars—a handful of which he had accepted from O’Banon before Randall had shown them out. Jim thought that Scutter had looked surprised and was fairly certain he had been offering only one or two, but was also fairly certain it was no skin off his nose to acquire more.

  “What don’t feel good about this?” Tychus lifted his arms expansively to include the view, the booze, and essentially the entire joint.

  Jim opened his mouth to tell him about the message Myles had sent, but thought better of it, at least for the moment. Instead he said, “I keep seein’ Ryk in my head. With his neck squeezed by Daun.”

  Tychus’s grin faded. “Yeah. I seen a lot in battle, Jimmy. And I seen a lot just bein’ me. But that …” He shook his head and was quiet for a long moment. “Jimmy, I don’t think it makes me any less of a man to tell you that Ezekiel Daun scares the shit out of me.”

  “Me too,” Jim said. “I think he’d scare the shit out of any sane human being. Kydd was a good one. Better’n you and me, Tychus. He had a chance to go back to the sort of life we’re scrambling to find, and he didn’t.” Jim was surprised to feel tears stinging his eyes. He blamed it on the booze and the extreme agitation Daun had caused.

  “Yeah,” Tychus agreed quietly. “He didn’t never let anyone down. Not ever.”

  “When they came for him, and he coulda gotten his old life back…. Turning away from that chance was a noble thing, Tychus. A noble thing. He stayed because he wanted to make sure his friends stayed alive.”

  Tychus nodded, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. “That it was. I ain’t seen a lot of noble things in my life, but I seen that.”

  “We didn’t do that much with him afterward,” Jim muttered, knocking back a drink and pouring himself another with an unsteady hand.

  “Don’t you go blaming yourself, Jimmy,” Tychus said, his voice slightly sharp. “We didn’t ditch him or nothing. We just kinda went our separate ways.”

  “Yeah? And what kind of way did he take? We didn’t even bother to ask.”

  “Ryk was a sniper. Stands to reason he’d use the skills he had.”

  “Yeah, but … you know how he looked at it.” Jim fumbled for words. “Ryk used his talents to keep us safe. He was … protective. But I’m thinking that maybe he just went and hired himself out as an assassin.”

  “Again, I say that complicated word: ‘so’?”

  “That ain’t right. Killin’ ain’t just killin’, and you know it. Not for him, at least, it wasn’t. For him it was about helping his friends stay alive. About doing something good. Maybe if we’d stuck together, he wouldn’t have had to go hire himself out like a common killer
. Take that gift and just use it for money.”

  “Maybe if we’d stuck together, Daun would have had three at once.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe we could have stopped the bastard.”

  “You know, Jimmy, ‘maybe’ is a fine word, but it don’t get you drunk, rich, or laid,” drawled Tychus.

  Jim allowed as how Tychus had a point. “Still,” he said, “we’ll never know, because we didn’t do a noble thing. And I wish to God we had.”

  “Hell, Jimmy, I ain’t any more capable of doing something noble than of jumping off the roof and flying,” Tychus said.

  “On that we are agreed,” Jim said, smiling a little. He lifted his glass. “Here’s to Hobarth, who had the guts to crawl out of a prison camp with enough wits left to bring it down. To Feek, who saved our lives more than once. And to our buddy Ryk. Noble people all, and I aim to never forget them.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Tychus said, and began to back up his words with action, adding, “Course, I’ll drink to just about anything.”

  As they stumbled down the troughs between ruined ships that served as streets, Jim’s mood grew darker and darker, and his thoughts turned to what Scutter O’Banon did. Jim didn’t mind exotic dancers who did a little more on the side. He didn’t mind getting drunk. He didn’t mind “liberating” credits.

  He minded selling people. He minded running drugs known to be dangerous or far, far too addictive—substances that turned people into zombies. And he very, very much minded torture. He did not like Scutter O’Banon: did not like what the man did, did not like that the deal had changed now that Ezekiel Daun was on their tail—did not like that Daun was on their tail, period—and did not like that he had had to hightail it out of New Sydney space before finding out what the hell Myles had wanted with him.

  So, while Tychus wanted to pop his head into every crevice that promised “Girls,” “Booze,” or “Gambling,” Jim, despite the fuzziness of his head, found himself looking for other, tamer distractions. He did not find them, and so he was in a surly mood when he found himself at a bar, both hands wrapped around a beer, talking to the bartender who, while not Misty, actually looked like she gave a damn.

  “Just … you know, wanna make sure she’s okay,” Jim was slurring as the dark-skinned girl nodded sympathetically. Her brown eyes were kind as she set another bottle down in front of him.

  “Been a long time since you’ve seen your momma?” she asked.

  “Yep. Too long.”

  She dried a glass. “I’ve not seen my momma and daddy for a long time myself.” She smiled a little. “Not by my choice, though. Guess that being a bartender in a place called Dead-man’s Port isn’t exactly the future they envisioned for their little girl.”

  Jim winced. Her words had struck too close to home for his comfort. A few meters away, Tychus cried, “Come to Papa!” and presumably either was hauling in his winnings at the gambling table or hauling an attractive girl onto his lap.

  “I got a friend might be able to link you up—for a fee,” the bartender continued.

  “What do you mean, ‘link me up’?”

  “He could get a message through to your momma.”

  Jim started so violently, he almost spilled his beer but, with the reflexes of several years spent drinking, caught it just in time. “I don’t wanna talk to my mom.”

  The girl seemed puzzled. “Well, all right, then. Anything else I can get you, hon?”

  “Wait.” He hesitated. “Your friend. I want to talk to him.”

  “He’ll find you,” she said, and winked.

  Jim was even further in his cups when a man of medium build and nondescript appearance sat down beside him as he watched the show. The girls had barely started their routine and most of their clothes were still on. Jim didn’t even notice the man until he spoke—quietly—yet somehow managed to be heard over the whooping of appreciative customers and blaring music.

  “I understand you need a message delivered,” the man said.

  Jim turned. The man was completely forgettable, although being drunk probably didn’t help Jim’s powers of observation. It took him a couple of seconds, then his eyes widened. “Bartender’s friend,” he said.

  “Exactly. Now, how can I help you?”

  Jim told him. The man listened, nodding now and then. “Yes, I believe I can assist you. Shiloh is rather out of the way and a bit of a backwater, so I’m afraid I’ll have to charge extra.”

  “Don’t care.” Jim didn’t.

  “Wish more customers were like you, Mr. Raynor.” The man smiled. “I receive messages at this address.” He slipped Jim a data card. It was too dark and Jim was too drunk to read it anyway, so he merely nodded. “If you don’t hear from me, feel free to stop by,” the man suggested. “Quietly. With a little bit of luck, you’ll be hearing from one Mr. Myles Hammond of Shiloh very soon.”

  He named his fee; Jim paid it; they shook hands; and Jim returned his attention to the dancers. His heart felt somewhat eased, and he realized just how much this had been weighing on him. He even felt better about the deal they had struck with Scutter O’Banon. At least it would keep the walking nightmare that was Ezekiel Daun at bay.

  He ordered another beer, stretched out his long legs, and smiled at the buxom beauty gyrating near him. She responded by closing one heavily made-up eye in an inviting wink.

  The sun was merciless and cruel, and when the door to the room Jim had reserved for the night opened and the men who entered pulled the shades, Raynor was hard-pressed not to yelp in agony even as he reached for his gun and trained it on the intruders. He blinked, lowering the gun as he recognized Cadaver.

  “Baines? What the hell are you doing here?”

  The girl beside Jim, significantly less lovely in the harsh morning light, muttered and ducked her head back under the covers.

  “Mr. O’Banon has just learned that you have received an encrypted message from Shiloh.”

  Jim was so muzzy-headed it took him a few seconds to catch up with Cadaver’s words. From Shiloh? Already? Damn, that … whatshisname was good.

  “That was fast,” he said, moving as quickly as his protesting head would let him. “Would you boys mind closing the shades?”

  “Mr. O’Banon is not pleased that anyone is contacting you on secure channels.”

  That irritated Jim. He swung his feet over the bed and pulled on his trousers, not caring about his unexpected audience. That was what they got for barging in on someone.

  “Well, apparently it didn’t get by his sniffer dogs, did it? Or else you wouldn’t be here with your panties in a bunch.”

  They exchanged glances, frowning. “Mr. O’Banon requests that you come with us to—”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you kindly for delivering the message so promptly. I’m going to go get my message, on my secure channel, and you can tell your boss to … wait.”

  He threw on his shirt and vest, tugged on his boots, and was buckling his gun belt as he strode out the door, leaving some rather stunned people behind.

  “You boys gonna pay for my services for him?” he heard the girl saying as the door closed behind him.

  The site that Mr. Mystery gave was deceptive—the name wasn’t even on the card, just a code that, when keyed into Jim’s fone, had given him an address. At first, it didn’t even look like it was an actual address, and Jim had to double-check it. There it was, a narrow aperture between two other “storefronts,” in a manner of speaking, and Jim slipped inside into the darkness.

  It was very dark indeed, and his hand went to his pistol in anticipation of an ambush. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that there was a dim glow up ahead at the end of the narrow corridor. Gun at the ready, Jim moved slowly, emerging into what had obviously once been the cargo area of a ship. The faint lighting revealed that small portable alcoves with individual partitions had been set up. Jim saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled a
round to see someone almost as nondescript as Mr. Mystery approaching.

  “Do you have a card, sir?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Jim said, handing it to him. “Name’s Jim Raynor. Was told there was a message for me from—”

  “Yes,” the man said, interrupting him smoothly. “Follow me, please.” He led Jim through the maze of partitions, and Jim caught brief glimpses of other patrons here to receive messages. Some of them were quietly sobbing; some had smiles on their faces. All had small earbuds and were watching holograms.

  “Here you are, sir. Your payment permits you to watch it three times. If you wish to watch it again, there will be an additional fee. Please insert the earbuds to ensure privacy. To activate your message, press this button here.”

  “Gotcha,” Jim said. He was already seated and reaching for the earbuds. The man slipped away quietly.

  Jim hesitated for a minute. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. Realizing that he was nervous, he scowled at himself and pushed the glowing red button with unnecessary vigor.

  The image of Myles Hammond appeared, a mere third of a meter high. He looked much older than he had when Jim had seen him last, even though it hadn’t been that long. Grayer, more stooped, the lines around his eyes captured by the surprisingly high-quality hologram.

  “Jim. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you. I … listen. I understand that what I’m about to ask is dangerous, and a risk. I wouldn’t ask it if … well. There’s just no easy way to say this.”

  Jim’s gut clenched as the holographic Myles took a deep breath.

  “Your mother’s dying, Jim. She’s been sick for a long time, but she’s recently taken a turn for the worse. Doctor reckons she don’t have much more than a couple of weeks, maybe a month at the outside. I know you couldn’t be here when your daddy died, but you didn’t have no warning then. This time you do. If you want to see her before she passes, you better find a way to get out here soon. You let me know when you’re coming, and I’ll find a safe spot for you to land and have clothes and transportation ready for you.” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. “Take care, Jim.”