StarCraft II: Devils' Due (18 page)

wished that he had had a chance to find out what

Myles wanted. But right now, staying alive was more

important. And he had to admit, enjoying a hot shower

and fine liquor while doing so didn’t hurt anything.

It felt better than he had imagined, and he realized

just how sweaty, dirty, and beaten up he had been in

the encounter. And then the image of Ryk Kydd, held

aloft by a cybernetic hand crushing his throat,

slammed into his mind.

Raynor’s hands crept up to his temples, pressing

hard, as if he could squeeze the memories out of his

mind like he thought he had done. Prior to the recent

disturbing events, he hadn’t thought about Ryk, or

Harnack, or any of the old Heaven’s Devils in much

detail for years. Life had moved too fast for

memories. But the brutal encounter with Ryk Kydd’s

kil er had hauled the recol ections up out of the deep

pool in which they had lain sunken.

It was funny how a spoiled, if decent-natured, kid

from an Old Family had become a sniper. And even

stranger, why. Kydd had been drugged and

essential y sold into the military. At first he’d tried so

hard to get out. Jim remembered his earnestness. He

wanted to go home, and who could blame him? But

then things had started to change.

Kydd had had a gift. He could shoot and kil

beautiful y. It had been almost—artistic. And in kil ing

the enemy, he had saved his friends. Death had

brought life for those Ryk cared for.

And now, he, too, was dead. Not of old age or

accident, but at the hands of a—

Jim Raynor was forced to lean against the ceramic

tile wal s and let the hot water beat down on him for a

long time.

Jim and Tychus knew the name of Scutter

O’Banon, but they had never seen the man before. Al

the same, Jim had a good idea of what to expect,

judging from the man’s house, and he wasn’t

disappointed. Randal showed them into a parlor

where there was another smal table crowded with

delicacies, alcohol, and fine cigars. Jim sat down in

one of the chairs and found he had to perch close to

the edge or risk being swal owed by maroon

upholstery.

They waited for several minutes, an old chrono

ticking and Tychus’s puffing on the cigar the only

sounds. Jim was not in the mood for any more liquor

or food, and simply sat, trying and failing not to clasp

and unclasp his hands nervously.

“Gentlemen, such a
pleasure
to final y make your

acquaintance,” said a voice.

It was oily, and calculating, and drawling, and smug;

Jim disliked it upon hearing it. Nonetheless, his mom

had dril ed courtesy into him, and he rose and turned

to greet his host.

And had to look down.

Scutter O’Banon was not quite a “little person,” as

their late friend Hiram Feek had been, but Jim didn’t

think he was much over five feet. He had black hair,

slicked back and slightly perfumed, and a round face

with smal , sharp, deep-set eyes. A red mouth topped

by a pencil-line mustache was currently holding a thin

cigar that Tychus would have cal ed “girlie.” Jim

suspected, however, that Tychus probably would
not

opt to cal it “girlie” to O’Banon’s face, given the

situation.

O’Banon stuck out his hand. Jim shook it. The

handshake was surprisingly firm, although the hand

itself was soft and utterly lacking cal uses.

“Good to meet you, too, Mr. O’Banon,” Jim said

politely.

Tychus towered over the man as they shook hands.

“Your fel ow Cad—er, Baines certainly does have

mighty fine timing. I appreciate his help and yours,

and your fine hospitality.”

“You’re most welcome, Mr. Findlay.”

“Please—I tend to let people who’ve saved my hide

cal me Tychus. And this here’s Jimmy.”

“As you wish. You may cal me Scutter, if you like.

We’re al friends here.”

No we’re not
, Jim thought but did not say. He shifted

his seat slightly. Hot shower, nice clothes, good food,

alcohol, and stogies aside, he wanted to be out of

here as quickly as possible.

“Mighty kind of you,” Tychus continued. “I have to

say, I was wondering just how it came to be that

Baines was so quick to find us when we landed on

your planet.”

Jim’s lips thinned at the phrase, but it was correct:

this place
was
Scutter’s planet.

“Quite simple, real y. Very few people have turned

down the chance to do business with me and

survived,” O’Banon said in that unctuous voice that

made Jim’s skin crawl. It was not a threat; it was the

truth, and Jim knew it. “I was sufficiently intrigued that I

had sent word out among my people that if you ever

landed at Deadman’s Port, I was to be notified

immediately. I wanted to make sure you knew you

were welcome.”

Suddenly Jim wondered what would have

happened if they had told Cadaver they stil weren’t

interested. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“I have been a longtime admirer of your work from

afar, gentlemen,” O’Banon continued, gesturing to

Randal to pour them al something rich and dark and

tasty-looking.

“Wel , that puts a smile on my face,” Tychus said.

“We do take pride in that work.”

“As I have said before, I’d like for that fine work

ethic to benefit us both. You’ve got a fair taste of the

sort of thing I can offer you, and I know what you can

do. I assume that since you have so kindly decided to

cal upon me, you are interested in pooling our

resources.”

“That we are,” Tychus said.

“Why, I am so pleased to hear that.” He lifted his

shot glass in salute.

Jim lifted his glass as wel , taking a sip of

something strong and thick and syrupy. It could, he

thought, be a metaphor for their host. He didn’t much

care for the stuff, whatever it was, and had to force

himself to take another sip.

“I’m sure you have questions for me,” O’Banon said

next.

Tychus downed the liquor in a single gulp, leaned

back in the chair, and puffed on the cigar. “I do have

one particular question, and it’s pressing on me

mighty hard,” he said.

“Fire away.”

“We have ourselves a very nasty dog on our tails,”

Tychus explained. “Hard to shake him. Was

wondering if you might be able to do that for us. It

would certainly free our minds to concentrate on doing

a better job for you if we didn’t have a bounty hunter

taking potshots at us.”

O’Banon’s red mouth pursed over his thin cigar.

“Many of my employees come to me with tales of woe

similar to yours. I’m sure we can throw this hound off

your scent. Do you have any idea as to his identity?”

“Ezekiel Daun.”

O’Banon went very stil . The room’s silence

pressed in on them, and the ticking chrono sounded

more like a ticking bomb to Jim.

“My, my, you do seem to have enemies in high

places,” O’Banon said at last. He blew out a thin

stream of smoke, fixing his gaze thoughtful y on a

corner of the room, and rol ed the tiny cigar in his blunt

fingers. “No offense, but while your work is artful, it is

hardly on the sort of scale that warrants such

retaliation. Who could possibly want you dead enough

to spend the type of money needed to get Daun?”

Things had happened so fast and so brutal y that

Jim realized he hadn’t even had a chance to think

about that. Tychus glanced over at him and Jim saw

that the thought was only now occurring to him as wel .

He couldn’t think of anybody, and judging by Tychus’s

expression, the bigger man couldn’t, either.

“Wel , Scutter, you ask a mighty good question

there. As we only recently found out that he was even

interested in us, we haven’t had much time to think

about who the hound master might be.”

“I see.” O’Banon tapped the ash off his cigar and

took another sip of the sweet liquor. “I’m sure that you

must understand that this changes the nature of our

relationship somewhat. The situation has …
evolved
.”

Here we go
, thought Jim.

“You don’t want to just come work for Scutter

O’Banon. You need my protection. That’s something

quite different. Our split is going to have to change

slightly.” He took another puff. “In my favor.”

Tychus looked over at Jim, who shrugged. They

were hip-deep in this now. The second that Daun’s

name had come up, O’Banon knew he had them by

the short-and-curlies, and that was that. They needed

him, and he knew it, and that gave him the upper

hand.

He tuned out the details, listening with only half an

ear as Tychus and Scutter O’Banon hammered out

the deal. Tychus was better at this stuff, anyway, and

the whole thing had been his idea.

No, rather than listen to the finer points of

negotiating, Jim found his mind focusing on one thing,

and one thing only.

The question that Scutter O’Banon had asked …

the question for which he and Tychus had no answer.

Who had hired Ezekiel Daun?

* * *

rather burly man to maneuver it into the dimly lit room

where their employer resided. The hoverdol y had

smal lights so they could see where they were going.

Grunting with effort, the resoc eased the holoprojector

off so that it would project its image directly in front of

the huge metal box that surrounded their boss’s body

except for his head, which was now wreathed in

shadow, il uminated only sporadical y by the brief flash

of lights that chased each other along the metal

enclosure.

“You’l wake the dead with that clatter,” the

protruding head was saying, his voice husky and

echoing in the room. “Hurry, hurry, I want to see this

now, not tomorrow!”

“Of course, sir,” the resocialized servant said

nervously. “We understand completely, and we’re

almost ready.”

“Almost, almost …,” the shadowed man growled.

There was the flick of a switch. The figure of a tal ,

wel -built man in a long duster with a neatly trimmed

goatee stood large as life in front of the metal coffin.

“Are they dead, Daun? Are they dead?” The raspy

hol ow voice was fil ed with anticipation.

“Not yet.”

A shriek of raw fury rent the tension-fil ed air in the

room, and the resocs paled and began to sweat.

“What?
What?
You useless sack of dog shit! You’re

supposed to be the finest bounty hunter in the sector,

and you stil have not produced your main targets! I do

not tolerate failure, Daun, I do
not
!”

Daun’s brows drew together. When he spoke, his

voice was calm and even. “I’d advise you to watch

your tone and remember who you’re speakin’ to,” he

said with a slight smile. “Sometimes kil in’ ain’t just

about money. Sometimes, and in fact quite a lot of the

time, kil in’s about a man’s honor. You wouldn’t want

to step on ol’ Daun’s
honor
, now, would you?”

There was a silence. The head protruding from the

blinking casket turned away.

“No. I wouldn’t.” A pause. “You are the best in the

business, and I’m sure you wil succeed. Please let

me know when the mission is accomplished.”

“Of course,” Daun replied. His goatee parted in a

smile. “I’l show you.”

And without another word, the hologram faded

away.

“Get it out!” the man screamed. “Get it out of here

now!
Now!
”

Instantly the muscular resoc sprang into action,

loading the holoprojector back on the dol y and

removing the offending item from his master’s

presence. As the one maneuvering the dol y stepped

through the door that opened for him, another one

entered. The newcomer stepped to the side of the

coffin, monitoring the statistics that continuously rol ed

along a screen.

“You too,” snarled the man. “I want to be alone. Get

out of here!”

“Yes, Colonel Vanderspool.”

They had become gods.

There real y was no other way to put it. Word

apparently spread fast in Deadman’s Port that James

Raynor and Tychus Findlay were under Scutter

O’Banon’s protection, and over the next few weeks