StarCraft II: Devils' Due (17 page)

canny and hungry and dangerous, and once again

Jim thought longingly of Wicked Wayne’s, of the

laughter and sense of fel owship and play. There was

a reek about this place that had nothing to do with the

pol ution or the smel s of unwashed bodies or waste

matter in the streets. It was the reek of hopelessness,

of coming to the end of the line. This might indeed be

where people went to remake themselves, but not in

any positive way. If this was what flourished with

Scutter O’Banon at the helm, it only reinforced Jim’s

idea that he didn’t want anything to do with the man.

And then he thought of Ezekiel Daun.

“Can’t swing a cat without hitting a whore,” Tychus

said, approval in his voice. “And a bar every other

place. I think I like this town, Jim.”

They moved on, and Jim felt the back of his neck

prickling. Casual y, he looked over his shoulder. The

streets were lively, certainly, but there were a couple

of men who seemed to have more purposeful strides

than most.

“Can you spare some food or change?” came a

smal voice down in the vicinity of his knee. The child

was pale and dirty, his face pinched, his eyes too

large for his smal face. But even on that young visage

was a look of craftiness, and Jim pul ed back. Others

appeared out of nowhere, converging upon him and

Tychus with gripping little hands and words professing

hunger and cold and need.

Jim frowned and tried to push the children off. “Get

off me afore I drop-kick your tiny asses into the next

star system,” Tychus growled, much less restrained

with the little gaggle of pests.

Before Jim realized what was happening, the

throng of kids had deftly steered him and Tychus off

the main street area into what passed in this place for

an al eyway. Alarm shot through him and he pushed

harder at the children, who now, as if responding to

some unheard signal, scuttled back.

Four large men fil ed the entryway. Jim recognized

two of them. They were the men who had bought the

freighter.

“What’s the matter, boys?” Tychus drawled lazily. “I

ain’t never before seen men scared enough to let

children do their dirty work.”

The men sneered. “Seems you tried to pass a

piece of junk off on us,” one of them said. “We don’t

much care for that.”

“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 al ey. He was tal and

painful y 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 il umination

came in through the al ey 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.”

“Hel o 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 al kinds of

remorseful words, quite literal y begging for

forgiveness. Their voices were shaking. Jim was

thoroughly confused. Tychus obviously recognized the

man, and—

And then he understood.

“Shal I let them go, Mr. Findlay?” asked Cadaver.

“I’m quite sure they’l 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 shal 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,

al 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 fel a 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’l just

keep cal ing 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’l 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 smal corporate town. He

realized quickly that al 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 cal 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 ironical y named Paradise he had heard tel of.

Al 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 smal , old-

fashioned groundcar then took them on the last leg to

the mansion itself.

The driver took them and Cadaver along a long,

wel -paved drive through dozens of tal , meticulously

pruned trees that swayed in the gentle wind. At last

they pul ed 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

eventual y 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

Phil ip Randal . 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,

fol ow me.”

Jim and Tychus exchanged glances, then fol owed

Randal into the yawning entry hal . 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 kil s, 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.

Randal 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 ful y as big as any three rooms at

Wicked Wayne’s. Afternoon light slanted in thick as

honey, il uminating a lavish bedroom with a canopied

bed and gorgeous furnishings. There was an

adjoining sitting room with a sofa and a cheerful y

burning fire.

“There is fresh fruit, mineral water, and spirits

available for your consumption,” Randal said,

indicating a sideboard.

Tychus looked at the bed. “Bed looks kinda empty.

No one in it?”

Randal 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 wil be made promptly.”

“Fekk, I like this, Jimmy,” Tychus said. “How about

smokes?”

“There is a humidor next to the bed,” Randal said. “I

am certain you wil find something there to your liking.”

“So am I, Randal , my good man,” Tychus said.

“The bathing area is on the far side of the sitting

room,” Randal 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 wil be checking in with you in

about an hour. Please ring the bel 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 smal er man in the arm. “I

was just kidding with you.”

Randal met his gaze evenly. “I wasn’t, sir. If you’l

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 Randal pul ed 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. Fil ed 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 specifical y selected ones.

His parents had had a name for such people:

“quick-made.” People who got too much money too

fast, usual y from il icit 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 literal y by the sweat of their brows.

Raynor thought of the coordinates on his fone and