StarCraft II: Devils' Due (8 page)

listening to the exchange. “You could buy and sel

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.

“Wel , that sounds right fine, but I’l need to discuss

it with my business partner before making any kind of

commitment. I’m sure Mr. O’Banon wil understand

that. Now, you got about three seconds to get out.”

The man looked confused. “I wil 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 fol owing him

down the hal .

* * *

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 il umination 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 smal

lamps at the gambling tables. Over in a corner,

though, he saw movement, and a smal 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

real y have been four?—women upstairs sometime

last night. “Personal business?”

“Wel , one might say it was, considering the man

came into my room while I was surrounded by

lovelies,” Tychus said, feigning thoughtfulness.

“Holy shit, real y?”

“Yep.” Tychus took another drag, and the ember

glowed like an orange eye. “Man’s got bal s, 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

hol ering 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. Fel ow didn’t give his name, but he

told me who he works for. Says his boss is mighty

interested

in

forming

a

mutual y

beneficial

relationship. Promised it’d pay wel . Very wel .”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Tychus, after the day I’ve

had, I’m real y not interested in hearing about being

somebody’s puppet.”

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

“So name him already.”

Tychus leaned forward. Raynor did as wel . 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.

“Wel , 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 kil ing.”

Tychus rumbled noncommittal y, his eyes stil

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. “Hel , 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.”

“Wel , 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’ al of Wicked Wayne’s adds up, Jim,”

he said with mock seriousness. Jim grinned and

shook his head.

“Daisy says you stil 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

eventual y. He always does.”

They differed on that. Jim cast a longing look

around

the

bar/

dance

hal /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 usual y checked out Wayne’s every

time Jim and Tychus pul ed 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.

“Al 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’l get it too.”

Raynor wasn’t so sure.

“Wel , 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 wel 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 real y

gonna ruffle his feathers.”

Tychus grinned. “But ain’t that fun?”

Jim pretended to consider, then drawled, “Wel , I

reckon it is.”

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 wel ,

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 wal 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 wal were bare,

save for pushpins trapping smal bits of paper. He

paused and glanced briefly at the faces. He knew

them al : names, ages, criminal records, contacts,

bounty fees. His eyes narrowed as they fel 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 intel igent, even if they

tended to take outrageous risks. That made his job al

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

fal en, victims of the chase through the treacherous

badlands. Three of the men were stil 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 stil 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