StarCraft II: Devils' Due (26 page)

“Bet I’l stil be right here … except facedown and

with a few more bottles around me.”

“You should get that hand looked at,” Tychus said.

“Yeah … I don’t feel like asking Scutter for anything

right now.”

“There are places around here that’l fix you up, no

questions asked, for enough credits.”

Jim shrugged. “Scotty Bolger seems to be a pretty

good doctor too. Ain’t feeling much pain right this

moment.”

Tychus grinned, clapped his old friend on the back,

and left.

Jim poured himself another shot but did not drink it

immediately. Instead, he lifted the smal , clear glass

and idly looked at the amber liquid within. He

remembered the first time that he had been

introduced to the stuff. Tal , gangly Hank Harnack, a

former enemy who had become a cherished if

unpredictable brother in arms and fel ow Heaven’s

Devil, had ordered Scotty Bolger’s Old No. 8 for

himself, Raynor, and Kydd, cal ing it “the good stuff.” It

had, of course, tasted like crap, but Harnack had

assured Jim he’d get used to it. A fistfight had broken

out, of course, and the three of them had escaped on

a “borrowed” vulture hovercycle. Jim smiled at the

recol ection of the happy chaos of that evening.

So much had gone away in the last few years. Jim’s

unfamiliarity with drinking. The camaraderie of the

unit. His parents, both of them. Ryk Kydd and

Vanderspool both—the good and the bad. Hel , Jim

thought with a self-deprecating smile, he could count

his own naïveté among the casualties.

It had been unsettling, revisiting Shiloh. Even if his

mother had been wel , the trip would have been

uncomfortable. Everything had changed, and nothing

had changed. There was new building in progress,

new hardships, but the land and the sunsets and the

struggle were the same as what he had faced as a

child growing up there. Except then he had had a

family, a place. He had turned from that path, and he

wasn’t sure where he was anymore.

Jim had first turned from it when he had opted to go

off world, dazzled by a recruiter offering a “generous”

enlistment bonus, to become a Confederate marine

and fight in the Guild Wars. That path had led him to

witness acts both heroic and despicable, to trust and

to have trust betrayed.

His eyes narrowed and he gulped the liquid,

relishing the fire as it burned its way down to his gut.

Vanderspool.

Jim wasn’t a man who hated easily; that kind of

emotion had to be earned. But by God, Colonel Javier

Vanderspool had earned it in spades.

He’d earned it because he was utterly corrupted—

rotten to the core. Because he had been prepared to

sacrifice the lives of—wel , everyone under his

command for money. Because he had instal ed kil

switches in suits that were designed to save the lives

of soldiers in battle. And because, in the end, he had

given Jim Raynor a choice that was no real choice at

al . Raynor had gone AWOL rather than face

resocialization. That decision had forced him to turn

his back on his parents, and both of them were now

dead.

Fortunately, Vanderspool had met a fitting end. Jim

Raynor himself had fired the gauss rifle spike into the

man’s chest.

When you broke it al down and analyzed it, he

supposed it al made sense, each step of the journey.

But when you just looked at now versus then …

Raynor poured himself another shot.

He was glad, fiercely glad, that he had had a few

moments with his mother before her death. He wished

he had had the same with his father. In a way he had,

through the holovid. His mind went back to what his

dad had said.

I love you, Jim. You’re my son, and I always will

love you. I used to think I could also say, “I’ll always

be proud of you.” But I can’t honestly say that

anymore.

Jim grimaced and knocked back the shot.

We love you, but we can’t take your money. That’s

blood money, Son, and that’s not how you were

raised…. Do you remember what I used to tell you,

Son? A man is what he chooses to be…. You can

always choose to be something new. Never forget

that.

Words. Nice-sounding ones. “Some things are

easier to say than to do, Dad,” Jim said softly.

Where he was right now was good. He knew it.

Sure, there was Daun, but there was also Scutter,

who would kick Daun’s ass at some point; Tychus

seemed certain of it. The money was good. They

could buy the best booze, women, and parties with it.

He hopped from high to high.

But in return for Scutter’s help in defeating Daun—

and whoever the hel had sent the bastard after them

—O’Banon would own them. Their legacy would be

not portraits hung in museums or colonial courtrooms,

or names carved on memorials for the honored dead,

but having their pictures on wanted posters. The

money would run out; the women would betray them;

the booze would make them sick. From high to high.

Jim didn’t want to think anymore. He’d heard that

answers were sometimes found at the bottom of a

glass. He intended to find out.

DEADMAN’S PORT, DEADMAN’S

ROCK

Tychus blinked awake to find Raynor staring

down at him. “I’m getting mighty tired of people wakin’

me up,” he grumbled. The girls on either side of him

muttered.

“I know. Me too. Come on. Let’s get some food.”

Ten minutes later, they were in a seedy diner

chowing down on flapjacks, crispy fried skalet strips,

eggs, toast, jam, and black coffee strong enough to

stand a spoon up in. Jim was surprised to see so

many people up at such an early hour; the place was

bustling. He supposed that in a port like this, there

was no “better” or “worse” time for activity, criminal or

otherwise.

“Got your hand fixed, I see.”

“Yeah. Booze wore off and it hurt like hel , so

around three I found someone to do the job.”

“Surprised you didn’t end up with another tattoo.”

They grinned at the memory. Ages ago, it seemed

now, the entirety of Heaven’s Devils had trundled,

absolutely blotto, into a tattoo parlor and gotten their

emblem placed on various parts of their bodies. Jim

remembered very, very little of it, so “memory” was

perhaps not the most accurate term. Stil , it made him

smile.

“So, Jimmy, I know you. Spil . You didn’t get me out

of a sandwich just to go eat flapjacks.”

Jim chewed the surprisingly delicious flapjacks

under discussion, washed the bite down with a swig

of thick coffee, and nodded.

“You’re right. And because you know me, you may

not like what I’m gonna say, but I bet you’l understand

it.”

Tychus scowled. “I better get more coffee in me if

you’re gonna start talking like that. Maybe with a shot

of something.”

Jim put down his fork. “Tychus … I been doing a lot

of thinking. And I’ve made a choice.”

Tychus looked at him expectantly, chewing.

“I want out.”

“Aw, hel , Jimmy,” Tychus groaned. But as Jim

suspected, Tychus didn’t look surprised. He forked

another mouthful of eggs into his mouth and looked

around with studied casualness. More quietly he said,

“That ain’t something you should be advertising in

Deadman’s Port. Be careful about that kinda talk, you

hear me?”

“I hear you,” Jim said. “That’s why we’re here.

We’re not as wel known here as we are at the bars

and gambling dens and whorehouses. Places I find

I’m getting right sick of being in.”

Tychus stared at his half-eaten breakfast, then

pushed his plate away. “You don’t just ‘get out.’”

“
I
do. And you can too. Tychus, you’re a bul , and it

makes me sick to see anyone riding you.”

“Anyone who’s not a pretty female, anyway.” Tychus

leered.

Jim didn’t bat an eye. “Scutter—”

Tychus made a keep-it-down motion with his hand.

Jim continued more quietly but with equal vehemence.

“Scutter O’Banon has got a ring through our noses,

and yet he ain’t done a damn thing for us. I know that’s

gotta sit bad with you.”

Tychus nodded slowly. “We stil can’t just up and

leave.”

“Damn it, Tychus—”

“Shut up and listen to me, boy.” Tychus’s voice was

serious. “We don’t jump without a parachute. We

don’t ditch O’Banon without some way of taking care

of ourselves. We can’t say, ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,

but we’d like to go work for someone else.’ If we’re

getting out, we need to get out and be able to
stay

out. Drop out completely, for good. Do you

understand what I’m saying?”

Jim did. Tychus, as usual, was one step ahead of

him. Jim knew that plenty of people underestimated

Tychus Findlay. They saw how powerful y, almost

impossibly built he was, and didn’t think past the

muscle. Big as he was, Tychus was extremely fit. He

was also extremely intel igent. Jim knew he himself

wasn’t a slouch in the fitness or mental acumen

department, but Tychus thought about things in a

different way than he did. They complemented each

other wel .

“Sounds like you might already know of something,”

he said, taking another bite of flapjack.

“I listen,” said Tychus bluntly. “Even when I’m doing

other things. And people talk, even when
they’re
doing

other things. Scutter’s boys are no exception. Now,

Cadaver and that butler know how to keep their

mouths shut, but some of the others … wel , let’s just

say Scutter’s got a big, big score coming up. One that

could keep us set for a long time. A
long
time.”

Jim was intrigued. “You know who we’re robbing?

Where the money’s coming from?”

Tychus shook his head. “Nope. And it don’t matter

none, anyway, because by the end of it al , that

money’s going to be ours and no one else’s.” He

grinned wickedly.

The man in the duster landed his smal vessel at

Deadman’s Port. He emerged from the ship and

looked about, fixing his one-eyed gaze on the

“authorities” there. The other eye was covered by a

patch. There was something in that single cold eye

surrounded by scars that made the men avert their

own. They took his credits, wished him good day, and

were happy to see the back of him.

He strode through the channels between hulking

vessels with the confidence of one who knew he

would not be bothered, and he was not. Not by adults,

anyway. One member of a gang of urchins made the

mistake of reaching out a smal hand to clutch the

duster. The child found herself staring wide-eyed at a

pistol an inch from her face.

Daun smiled at her fear. “You know who I am?”

Tears wel ed in the brown eyes, slipped down the

tanned face. “N-no sir.”

“I’m the bogeyman,” Daun continued. He clicked off

the safety, slowly, knowing it would be heard clearly in

the frightened silence that had fal en on the cluster of

children. He lowered his face to the little girl’s, then

lifted the eye patch. The girl shrieked. Beneath the

black fabric was a patchwork of scar tissue. A

glowing red orb sat in the black, acid-scarred socket.

The orb seemed to dilate and constrict, making a

slight whirring noise as it did so.

“I’m going to come at night, and crawl into your

head, and haunt your dreams as I stare at you with my

red, red eye. And then tomorrow I’l be fol owing you.

Watching
you. Do you know what I want to see with

my red, red eye?”

She was fighting back sobs now, her whole body

trembling. Her terror was intoxicating. It was a pity his

line of work didn’t bring him into contact with children

more often. Their fear was so …
pure
.

“No, sir,” she whispered. “What do you want to

see?”

“I want to see you looking over your shoulder,

wondering where I am. Wil you do that for me?”

She nodded, screwing her eyes shut. Mucus ran

from her nose.

“Good. Maybe I won’t come back in your head after

that. Or maybe I wil . Run along now.”

She and her little group fled, scattering like roaches