StarCraft II: Devils' Due (33 page)

you poor sons of bitches down in that lobby. I’m so

sorry.

“Contract,” drawled Tychus.

“You sound like you’ve got fine business ethics

there, Daun. Too bad you don’t have any other kind,”

snarled Jim. He stared at the corpse in front of him,

scarcely visible in the faint light. It looked like a

dummy rather than what had once been a living,

breathing human being.

“Morals are such slippery things, ain’t they, Jim

Raynor?” said Daun. “They’re so flexible. So

adaptable. How are
your
morals doing now?”

A dummy … Jim turned his head and did a double

take at what looked like another figure looming over

him, this one strangely bulky and ominous but, like the

body on the floor, one that didn’t move. And then he

remembered how they were planning to get out. Or at

least,
had
been planning to get out before Daun had

appeared like some sort of unstoppable Grim

Reaper.

“Since you’re gonna kil us,” Tychus continued,

moving with surprisingly slow grace in the room,

attempting to locate their hunter, “why don’t you just

tel us who put the contract out on us? It’d be right

gentlemanly of you to send us to our graves with that

particular question answered.”

“If I had more time, I don’t think I would answer that.

At least, not right away …,” Daun said. He had been

in several places, thanks to the holograms, but as Jim

kept moving slowly, he caught a glimpse of something

in a mirror. A smal red dot that moved.

For an instant, he thought it was a targeting device

that Daun was using, but that didn’t make sense. If it

were such a device, it would be focused on him or

Tychus. Then, somehow, his muzzy brain understood

with bril iant clarity.

So this was how Daun could see them so clearly.

Jim wasn’t seeing a red dot that indicated a targeting

laser. He was seeing Daun’s new eye. The bounty

hunter already had a cybernetic arm. Thanks to Jim’s

attack the last time they had met—in the lab—he now

had an ocular implant.

Despite the direness of the situation, Jim found

himself smiling. Daun no doubt thought he had a leg

up on them. He didn’t realize that he was revealing his

location. Judging from the way the mirror was

positioned, Daun would be standing right about …

Jim lifted his wounded arm, biting back a shriek of

agony, and pointed the pistol. He didn’t dare say

anything to Tychus, and could only hope his friend was

paying attention to his movements.

“… No, I’d string you along for a bit,” Daun

continued. The arrogant bastard wasn’t even aiming

his pistol. Though Jim could barely see Daun in the

dark, he could have sworn the man was grinning, as

happy as a pig in mud. “But alas, our time together,

gentlemen, is running out. So I think I wil do as you

request, Tychus Findlay. I wil enlighten you.”

Jim had a clear shot at Daun now, but he didn’t

take it. His arm quivered from the strain, red-hot pain

becoming white-hot with every second he delayed,

but he couldn’t kil Daun. Not until he knew who had

been responsible for siccing this bastard on them.

“My employer for this particular assignment is one

Javier Vanderspool.”

Jim staggered. Vanderspool? His vision swirled,

becoming gray around the edges. Impossible. That

evil …
thing
… was dead. Jim had seen to it himself.

He felt his gorge rise. It couldn’t be. This had to be a

lie … one of Daun’s sick little games.

“That ain’t right,” Tychus said. “Jim done put that

mad dog down a while ago.”

“You’re wrong.” In the center of the room, another

hologram sprang to life. Jim lowered his weapon,

staring. The hologram depicted a sort of giant

mechanical coffin. A man was encased in it, al of him

except his head. It was a dark location, and strain as

Jim might, he couldn’t identify the man.

And then he spoke.

“Ezekiel Daun.”

Vanderspool. Dear God. It was true. He
was
alive

… if you could cal that living….

Blood thundered in his ears. The words were

garbled; they made no sense as Daun and

Vanderspool spoke. Jim and Tychus watched as

Daun drew something out of a bag.

It was Ryk Kydd’s head.

Casual y, Daun tossed it toward the man in the iron

coffin.

Jim’s stomach heaved, but with a wil he hadn’t

realized he had, he refused to betray himself.

Something had awakened deep inside him and was

clawing its way upward, past the despair and the fear.

“It’s a start, Mr. Daun. I believe you have two more

left, don’t you? Don’t come back until your satchel

bulges with two other trophies: Tychus Findlay and

James Raynor.”

“Don’t worry, old man. They’re next,” came Daun’s

voice from the hologram. The image froze.

“And I’m afraid,” Daun said with mock resignation,

“that you are indeed next. Good-bye, Mr. Findlay, Mr.

Raynor.”

Jim fired about a foot below the glowing ocular

implant.

The red dot vanished as Daun went down.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” Jim murmured. He

swayed and then fel to the floor.

He awoke presumably a very short while later to

find himself face-to-face with what looked like a

hardskin. There was a loud banging that he

suspected came from his own head.

“There you are, Jimmy,” Tychus said. “Thought I’d

lost you for a minute.”

“Daun?”

“Ain’t had time for an autopsy, but looks like you

nailed him good. He won’t be bothering us no more.

Now, get into this thing and let’s get out of here.”

Jim now realized that the banging did not come

from his head but from outside the penthouse suite.

And the hardskin was not one of the standard-issue

suits he and Tychus were familiar with from their days

as marines; it was something much more advanced.

O’Banon had promised them five prototypes of a

new, superior suit in order to make their escape.

Equipped with grenade launchers on the arms, able

to do everything the standard suits could and then

some, the hardskins would enable the men to blast

their way through the wal , jump easily to the street,

thanks to a slow-fal modification, and race off,

demolishing anyone attempting to stop them, until

they reached the rendezvous point.

“Supposed to be five,” Jim muttered. There was

only one, which Tychus was holding out to him now.

“I know,” Tychus said. “Son of a bitch O’Bastard

never intended for anyone but his pet Ass to survive

this. That’s why he was so generous in his terms with

us. He was gonna leave you and me and the other two

behind.”

“Somehow I ain’t surprised,” Jim said.

“You ain’t got time for I-told-you-so’s, Jimmy,”

Tychus said. With one hand, he hauled Raynor to his

feet and began to help him into the suit. Jim hissed as

his arm was maneuvered into position. “This thing’l

keep you alive long enough to get out.”

The banging increased. Now there was a wail of

sirens from somewhere.

Suddenly Tychus’s words registered. “Tychus, you

can’t stay here!” Jim exclaimed.

Tychus didn’t look at him as he snapped shut

multiple clasps, sealing Jim inside the armored suit.

“Jimmy, we got only one suit. And I know you wouldn’t

have been part of this thing if you’d known what the

money was for. I lied to you, and that weren’t right. You

got a chance to get clear of al this. You’re gonna even

if I have to knock you out and set this thing on

autopilot.”

There was, of course, no way to set the suit on

autopilot. Jim stared at his friend. “You can’t hold

them off by yourself,” he said quietly.

“You insulting my masculinity, boy?” Tychus said

bluffly. “Hel , I can handle these guys, no problem. And

by the way, since you’re too good to take the money,

it’s al mine.”

“Tychus—”

With a hiss, the helmet sealed shut. “Go, damn it.”

Jim turned, moving toward one of the windows, the

suit feeling both familiar and strange to him. He lifted

one of the arms, experimental y pressed something,

and blinked as an enormous chunk of wal was

suddenly blown out. Jim paused, then turned back to

Tychus.

Tychus had his back to him. He had shucked the

fine dress shirt along with the vest that had once

housed the deadly mechanical spiders, and now

stood only in an undershirt, suit trousers, and boots.

He had a weapon in each massive hand and was

facing the door, ready for when it would give way—

which it would at any moment.

“I can’t do this,” Jim said.

Tychus whirled. His face was hard, set in the

expression he wore right before he dealt death and

destruction on a scale that was almost not human. But

there was a look in his eyes that Jim had never seen

there before.

“James Raynor,” Tychus Findlay said in a calm,

quiet voice that nonetheless somehow carried over

the cacophony of pounding, shouting, and wailing

sirens. “You once agreed with me when I said I’d

never done a noble thing in my life. That I never could,

that I just wasn’t capable of it. I thought you was right,

but you ain’t. Go on, now. Get out, get clean, and do

something with your life. You got the chance to do

that. Don’t take that away from me—not here, not

now.”

He turned back to the door. Jim stared at Tychus,

wanting to find some parting words to sum up

everything he felt for this unlikely friend. How much he

appreciated the laughter, the skin-of-their-teeth

escapes, the rowdiness of their partnership, the trust

they’d developed over the years. But they couldn’t get

past the lump in his throat. Tychus nodded briefly, then

turned to meet his fate.

Hell, Jimmy, I ain’t any more capable of doing

something noble than of jumping off the roof and

flying.

He wasn’t going to walk away from this. Jim Raynor

knew he was watching Tychus Findlay’s last stand.

Then the words came of their own volition.

“I know you didn’t cheat me, Tychus.”

Tychus didn’t turn around, but he seemed to

straighten slightly. “No, Jimmy, I never did. And I know

you didn’t, neither.”

It was enough.

Raynor turned and faced the glaring light of the

sunny day that bombarded the darkness of the room.

For a moment he stood on the edge of the gaping

hole he had blown into the wal . Below was green

grass, and streets, and freedom.

Below was a second chance to become the sort of

man his parents had raised him to be. To walk in that

sunlight without looking over his shoulder.

Slowly, James Raynor lifted his arms, jumped out

the window, and flew.

They were not fighting a man, Wilkes Butler

thought wildly as the door gave way and they poured

into the room. They were fighting a monster.

Holograms, too many to count quickly, were

playing, each a danse macabre. The central figure in

each one of the brutal scenarios was a man who

seemed to have a cybernetic arm. Members of the

local lawmen whom Butler had rounded up came to a

ful halt for several seconds on witnessing the bizarre

scene, trying to figure out what was real and what

wasn’t. That sudden, shocked pause cost some of

them their lives as the real adversary used that to his

advantage.

Tychus Findlay was alone in the room. He had a

gun in each hand and was firing away, screaming as

he did so. Butler dove for a pil ar in the vast

penthouse and kept trying to get a clear shot, but

Findlay was surrounded by wave after wave of law

officers, who injured themselves more than him in the

cross fire. Bul ets and iron spikes embedded

themselves in the wal s and the furniture, pinging

chips off the marble behind which Butler had taken

cover. And al the while that nerve-shattering bel ow,

the war cry of a trapped animal determined to take as

many with him as possible when he went down, fil ed

the room.

Butler kept his head and took stock of the situation

quickly. Findlay had two weapons but apparently no