StarCraft II: Devils' Due (5 page)

placed on him by the circumstances of his birth, he

had slipped out while attending a conference with his

father in the Hal of Reason. Wandering less than a

mile from the safety of the university, Ark Bennet,

scion of one of the Old Families, had been

approached by an attractive young woman, drugged,

and abducted, and had wound up conscripted into the

military. At first, he had been frantic to alert his father

about his situation. He had filed forms and affidavits

again and again. It seemed to have no effect.

And then something happened. He found

something he was good at—very, very good at.

Kil ing.

Ark had been the son of wealth and privilege, but

there had always been something lacking in his life: a

purpose, a direction. Something he could contribute.

And in the military, this almost uncanny gift he had—

he had heard it termed “the X factor,” an ability to

seemingly slow the passage of time as he took his

shots—had

helped

win

battles.

Even

more

importantly, it had saved the lives of friends.

Ironical y, it was when he had ceased to worry or

wonder if he would ever have a chance to go home

that two men from the Military Security Service had

arrived. He had lied at first, saying that he had faked

the claim about his true self. But they had confronted

him with irrefutable proof as to his identity. It was then

that he had pleaded with them—tried to explain as

best he could what his new identity, his new role in the

world and his ability to protect people he now thought

of as family, meant to him. And they had understood,

and at that moment Ark Bennet was dead, and Ryk

Kydd was permitted to live on.

But things had happened. Bad things—things that

shouldn’t have happened. Some friends—many—had

died, and he had parted ways with those who

survived. Ryk Kydd was, and would always be, a

sniper par excel ence. Except now he wasn’t doing it

for the military: he was doing it for himself. He had

become a hired kil er. There was no noble cause now,

just the cold action of pointing the rifle, squeezing the

trigger, and col ecting his pay.

Although he had once known the man lined up in his

sights, Kydd felt nothing for him one way or the other.

He didn’t care about MacMasters’s politics, or his

family, or the ramifications of the action about to

occur. Al he cared about was doing this thing he was

so good at, using the gift some hel ish angel had

blessed him with.

“Fel ow Confederates, I cannot tel you what joy it

brings me to see so many of you turned out here

tonight.”

Gently, like a lover caressing the object of his

desire, Kydd placed his finger on the trigger. There

was no computerized helmet to help him gauge the

temperature, humidity, altitude, and barometric

pressure. There were only slight modifications to the

scope of the rifle itself. He had surpassed the need

for most of that, experience and instinct coming

together in a duet of death.

Careful y, Ryk started to squeeze the trigger.

“Not the best idea.”

At once Kydd spun around, but the intruder was too

fast. There was a blur of motion, a swirl of a long coat,

and a kick too swift to see, and Kydd’s rifle went flying

out of his hands and clattered on the floor. Even as he

lost his grip on it, Kydd was reaching for a dagger,

which he brought down with al his strength on the arm

clutching his coat.

It clanged on impact, the blade slipping off to the

side uselessly. Startled, Kydd stared up at his

attacker.

The man grinned wolfishly. “Cybernetic arm,” he

said.

Quick as a thought, Kydd shrugged out of the black

coat caught in that mechanical grip, dropping and

sliding, scissoring his legs to try to trip the man. He

was rewarded by feeling the man’s balance shift for

an instant. His pleasure was short-lived, however, as

the attacker kicked free, leaped straight up, and

landed hard with one booted foot on Kydd’s left hand.

Kydd arched his back, his mouth open in a silent

scream. The stranger sprang back into a martial arts

stance.

“One down,” the man said, grinning. His lean,

angular face was decorated with a neatly trimmed

goatee, and his teeth looked startlingly white. He

licked his lips in anticipation. “Three to go.”

“… and their grievances are perfectly just. Shiloh

and other worlds have tirelessly given of themselves

to feed the Confederacy, particularly during wartime.

Given to the point where many, busy producing food

for others, have nothing to eat themselves. To go

hungry when—”

Kydd bolted upright. His left hand was completely

useless, but his right stil clutched the dagger. He let

his gaze flicker to the rifle, and as his adversary’s

eyes turned to fol ow his, he hurled the dagger straight

and true, right for the man’s turned, exposed neck.

The cybernetic hand whipped up faster than the eye

could fol ow, and closed down on the blade.

“Nice try.”

The next thing Kydd knew, white-hot pain seared

his right hand, and he was lying on his back again.

His own dagger had pinned his hand to the

floorboards. He tried to pul free, to clasp the hilt,

slippery with his own blood, with his smashed left

hand, knowing that any second now the man would be

on him to finish the job.

Except it didn’t happen. His would-be kil er hung

back, his white teeth gleaming, his eyes bright as he

watched Kydd struggle. He was …
enjoying
this.

Kydd had faced death before. He had the natural fear

of such a thing, but as he glanced up at his attacker

and saw that grin, a new kind of fear, hot and electric,

blossomed painful y in his heart. The man grinned

more widely.

Furious and frightened, his broken hand unable to

grip the hilt sufficiently, Kydd leaned over and

fastened his teeth on it, tasting the metal ic tang of

blood. Clutching the hilt with his teeth and

simultaneously
willing
himself to pul it free, he

succeeded. But what could he do with two ruined

hands?

The only thing he could do. He scrambled to his feet

and leaped forward in a flying kick.

Kydd’s feet met some sort of light armor, and even

as the kick connected, the unknown man moved with

the blow. Kydd fel hard on the floor.

“—to report that Farm Aid is doing exactly what it is

supposed to: feed the loyal farmers whose sacrifices

have placed them in this sad situation.”

Cheers and applause greeted the statement, but

Kydd did not hear them. Al his attention was focused

on the man now descending upon him, his fake arm

shooting out to close on Kydd’s throat so fast, it was a

blur. The hand started squeezing, slowly, and with

equal slowness the other man lifted Kydd off the floor.

His thin lips peeled back in a grin.

“Somebody wants you dead,” the man continued in

an almost conversational tone. “That’s fine by me. But

he didn’t stipulate
how
you were to die. Nor how long

it should take. That was left up to me to decide.” And

then the man actual y winked. “And we got
all night
.”

Terror threatened to close in on Kydd, but he fought

it back. With the cybernetic arm, his assailant could

have snapped his neck instantly. Instead, he was

choosing to kil slowly, and that gave Kydd a fighting

chance. Using the arm that was choking him as a

support, he pressed down on it with his lower arms,

lifted his legs up, and kicked out as hard as he could.

His attacker stumbled back a step or two, but the grip

around Kydd’s throat didn’t loosen.

“How’s it feel now, Ark? Having trouble getting air

in? Feeling the blood pressure build up? Do you want

to swal ow?”

He couldn’t break the man’s grip, because it wasn’t

a man’s grip—it was a cyborg’s—and panic surged

up into Kydd as he struggled. He tried to lift his legs

for another attack—the only option available to him—

but he didn’t have much strength left, and they kicked

ineffectively, swimming in the air until with his other

arm the assailant almost casual y slammed

something hard against Kydd’s kneecaps. Distantly

Kydd realized it was his own rifle.

Kydd couldn’t even howl in pain, the cry stifled by

the implacable fingers closing, closing around him.

“—are honoring those Old Families who have seen

the need and generously donated to those less

fortunate than themselves, who might otherwise be

too proud to ask for the help they so need. Those who

would harm the Confederacy, such as the terrorist

Sons of Korhal, who would take food from the mouths

of—”

“Good,” the man murmured. He tightened his grip

slightly. Kydd’s crippled hands flew to the false

fingers, stupidly, uselessly trying to pry them from the

slender human throat they were crushing. Blood

thundered in his ears. His lungs labored to get

something, anything—the merest puff of air—into

them. Darkness started to melt in around his vision.

He kept flailing, though, slapping his crippled hands

against the metal substance of the human-looking

arm. His legs moved ever more frantical y, and he felt

a warm wetness seeping into his crotch area.

The hand on his throat kept squeezing.

He felt heavy, too heavy to resist, to move. His eyes

closed, and he felt himself being shaken, the grip

loosening

“Damn it, not yet!” the man cried.

But it was too late. Kydd didn’t hear it, nor the

growing passion in the senator’s speech, nor the

wildly cheering crowd.

He didn’t hear anything at al .

* * *

the room, alone with the corpse that five minutes ago

had been a living, breathing human being, and who

had been so beautiful y, gloriously afraid. Sighing, he

relaxed his fingers and let the body thump to the floor.

It hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. He gazed

rueful y at his artificial hand, flexing and twiddling the

fingers. “Don’t know my own strength sometimes,” he

said. He picked up the rifle and took a moment more

to caress it, thinking about how many times Kydd had

held it, had fired it, had snuffed out a life in a

heartbeat. Chances were the victim never knew it was

coming.

Where was the fun in that?

He turned his attention to the body, got what he had

come for, dropped it in a smal satchel, and rose. He

went to a corner of the room near the door and picked

up a smal device he had activated when he first

entered, before he had revealed his presence to

Kydd. His metal ic hand closed about it protectively,

and he smiled.

His job done, the kil er turned and left.

“Let us not be dazzled by lies dressed up to look

like truths. Let us remember that the Confederacy and

the Old Families always—always—have our best

interests at heart. Ladies and gentlemen … for

freedom, for Farm Aid, and for the Confederacy!”

The bright lights from the ral y spil ed in through the

window, casting their il umination on the floor and on

what was left of Ryk Kydd, once known as Ark

Bennet.

RED MESA, NEW SYDNEY

WICKED WAYNE’S

The erratical y blinking sign proclaimed the

establishment to be Wicked Wayne’s, although the “n”

and the “e” kept shorting out so that it more often read

as “Wicked Way’s.” When Raynor was drunk, which

usual y happened a couple hours into any visit here,

he found this beyond hilarious.

Even now, the sight made him smile as he and

Tychus entered, climbing up the familiarly creaking

wooden steps into a bar/gambling house/“dance hal ”

that was raucous, smel y, and lively. Jim loved the

energy of this place. Unlike some places he and

Tychus had visited, it did not have any pal of despair

hanging over it like a thick cloud. No one came here

to drown their troubles. People came here to have fun.

Big Eddie—Jim and Tychus had been coming here

for years, and Raynor stil didn’t know the man’s last