StarCraft II: Devils' Due (19 page)

the two former marines fought back grins as crowds

often literal y parted for them. They were able to bel y

up to any bar and get top-shelf drinks for the regular

price, and sometimes on the house. The top gambling

dens seemed to have a seat for them, and every

“show” saw them at the best seats. Quieter offers

were made, too, for more private shows.

There was one particularly notable incident that Jim

knew he would remember for a long, long time.

Tychus had had more to drink than any man ought to

be able to stomach and survive. Even so, to the eyes

of those who didn’t know him wel , he seemed little

affected by the liquor. Jim knew better, and when

Tychus pul ed the stunt that had everyone talking for

the next week, he alone was unsurprised.

There was one place cal ed The Silver Bel e. It was

one of the more respectable “female dancer” venues

in Deadman’s Port—which was to say it was cleaner

than most and the alcohol was pretty good. The girls,

too, were cleaner than most, and also pretty good.

They had a genuine show, with an actual script and

something approaching decent acting. There were

three shows that they cycled through regularly.

This one was some sort of romantic tragedy. It

vaguely reminded Jim of one of the classics … if the

classics had simulated sex scenes and reasons for

the characters’ clothes to conveniently become torn,

damaged, or removed in some other fashion.

They had shown up halfway into the first scene—

which was fine, as they’d seen it before—and Tychus

immediately went to use the facilities. Five minutes

later Jim, who had been relaxing in his seat, sat bolt

upright.

Tychus Findlay stood on the stage, playing the lead

male character. He wore a huge grin, and very little

else. Jim groaned and placed his head in his hands.

Over to the side, the manager looked slightly sick, but

he was also holding an enormous sack of credits.

Jim had to admit that Tychus wasn’t half bad. He

knew the script—wel , mostly. And when he didn’t, the

other actors ad-libbed or shed their clothes for no

particular reason, and the crowd seemed to approve.

Jim found lots of reasons to get up and leave during

particularly, uh,
dramatic
scenes.

There was a party afterward, and later Jim was

sorry that he had gotten so drunk that he remembered

very little of it.

Despite the giddiness of their new, elevated

status, Jim found himself more subdued than one

might have expected. Tychus, knowing Jim as long as

he had, picked up on it and commented with his usual

subtle, caring understanding as they watched a floor

show.

“You look like you’ve been drinking piss instead of

fine booze,” he said.

Jim, who had in fact been drinking quite a lot of fine

booze, nodded somewhat unsteadily. “Yeah,” he said,

“I reckon I do. Things don’t feel good, Tychus.”

Tychus leaned back in the chair, watching the

nearly naked women gyrating about two feet from

them. He puffed one of Scutter’s cigars—a handful of

which he had accepted from O’Banon before Randal

had shown them out. Jim thought that Scutter had

looked surprised and was fairly certain he had been

offering only one or two, but was also fairly certain it

was no skin off his nose to acquire more.

“What don’t feel good about this?” Tychus lifted his

arms expansively to include the view, the booze, and

essential y the entire joint.

Jim opened his mouth to tel him about the

message Myles had sent, but thought better of it, at

least for the moment. Instead he said, “I keep seein’

Ryk in my head. With his neck squeezed by Daun.”

Tychus’s grin faded. “Yeah. I seen a lot in battle,

Jimmy. And I seen a lot just bein’ me. But that …” He

shook his head and was quiet for a long moment.

“Jimmy, I don’t think it makes me any less of a man to

tel you that Ezekiel Daun scares the shit out of me.”

“Me too,” Jim said. “I think he’d scare the shit out of

any sane human being. Kydd was a good one.

Better’n you and me, Tychus. He had a chance to go

back to the sort of life we’re scrambling to find, and he

didn’t.” Jim was surprised to feel tears stinging his

eyes. He blamed it on the booze and the extreme

agitation Daun had caused.

“Yeah,” Tychus agreed quietly. “He didn’t never let

anyone down. Not ever.”

“When they came for him, and he coulda gotten his

old life back…. Turning away from that chance was a

noble thing, Tychus. A noble thing. He stayed

because he wanted to make sure his friends stayed

alive.”

Tychus nodded, blowing a stream of smoke into the

air. “That it was. I ain’t seen a lot of noble things in my

life, but I seen that.”

“We didn’t do that much with him afterward,” Jim

muttered, knocking back a drink and pouring himself

another with an unsteady hand.

“Don’t you go blaming yourself, Jimmy,” Tychus

said, his voice slightly sharp. “We didn’t ditch him or

nothing. We just kinda went our separate ways.”

“Yeah? And what kind of way did
he
take? We

didn’t even bother to ask.”

“Ryk was a sniper. Stands to reason he’d use the

skil s he had.”

“Yeah, but … you know how he looked at it.” Jim

fumbled for words. “Ryk used his talents to keep us

safe. He was … protective. But I’m thinking that

maybe he just went and hired himself out as an

assassin.”

“Again, I say that complicated word: ‘so’?”

“That ain’t right. Kil in’ ain’t just kil in’, and you know

it. Not for him, at least, it wasn’t. For him it was about

helping his friends stay alive. About doing something

good. Maybe if we’d stuck together, he wouldn’t have

had to go hire himself out like a common kil er. Take

that gift and just use it for money.”

“Maybe if we’d stuck together, Daun would have

had three at once.”

“Maybe not. Maybe we could have stopped the

bastard.”

“You know, Jimmy, ‘maybe’ is a fine word, but it

don’t get you drunk, rich, or laid,” drawled Tychus.

Jim al owed as how Tychus had a point. “Stil ,” he

said, “we’l never know, because we didn’t do a noble

thing. And I wish to God we had.”

“Hel , Jimmy, I ain’t any more capable of doing

something noble than of jumping off the roof and

flying,” Tychus said.

“On that we are agreed,” Jim said, smiling a little.

He lifted his glass. “Here’s to Hobarth, who had the

guts to crawl out of a prison camp with enough wits

left to bring it down. To Feek, who saved our lives

more than once. And to our buddy Ryk. Noble people

al , and I aim to never forget them.”

“I’l drink to that,” Tychus said, and began to back

up his words with action, adding, “Course, I’l drink to

just about anything.”

As they stumbled down the troughs between

ruined ships that served as streets, Jim’s mood grew

darker and darker, and his thoughts turned to what

Scutter O’Banon did. Jim didn’t mind exotic dancers

who did a little more on the side. He didn’t mind

getting drunk. He didn’t mind “liberating” credits.

He minded sel ing people. He minded running

drugs known to be dangerous or far, far too addictive

—substances that turned people into zombies. And

he very, very much minded torture. He did not like

Scutter O’Banon: did not like what the man did, did

not like that the deal had changed now that Ezekiel

Daun was on their tail—did not like that Daun was on

their tail, period—and did not like that he had had to

hightail it out of New Sydney space before finding out

what the
hell
Myles had wanted with him.

So, while Tychus wanted to pop his head into every

crevice that promised “Girls,” “Booze,” or “Gambling,”

Jim, despite the fuzziness of his head, found himself

looking for other, tamer distractions. He did not find

them, and so he was in a surly mood when he found

himself at a bar, both hands wrapped around a beer,

talking to the bartender who, while not Misty, actual y

looked like she gave a damn.

“Just … you know, wanna make sure she’s okay,”

Jim was slurring as the dark-skinned girl nodded

sympathetical y. Her brown eyes were kind as she set

another bottle down in front of him.

“Been a long time since you’ve seen your

momma?” she asked.

“Yep. Too long.”

She dried a glass. “I’ve not seen my momma and

daddy for a long time myself.” She smiled a little. “Not

by my choice, though. Guess that being a bartender in

a place cal ed Dead-man’s Port isn’t exactly the future

they envisioned for their little girl.”

Jim winced. Her words had struck too close to

home for his comfort. A few meters away, Tychus

cried, “Come to Papa!” and presumably either was

hauling in his winnings at the gambling table or

hauling an attractive girl onto his lap.

“I got a friend might be able to link you up—for a

fee,” the bartender continued.

“What do you mean, ‘link me up’?”

“He could get a message through to your momma.”

Jim started so violently, he almost spil ed his beer

but, with the reflexes of several years spent drinking,

caught it just in time. “I don’t wanna talk to my mom.”

The girl seemed puzzled. “Wel , al right, then.

Anything else I can get you, hon?”

“Wait.” He hesitated. “Your friend. I want to talk to

him.”

“He’l find you,” she said, and winked.

Jim was even further in his cups when a man of

medium build and nondescript appearance sat down

beside him as he watched the show. The girls had

barely started their routine and most of their clothes

were stil on. Jim didn’t even notice the man until he

spoke—quietly—yet somehow managed to be heard

over the whooping of appreciative customers and

blaring music.

“I understand you need a message delivered,” the

man said.

Jim turned. The man was completely forgettable,

although being drunk probably didn’t help Jim’s

powers of observation. It took him a couple of

seconds, then his eyes widened. “Bartender’s friend,”

he said.

“Exactly. Now, how can I help you?”

Jim told him. The man listened, nodding now and

then. “Yes, I believe I can assist you. Shiloh is rather

out of the way and a bit of a backwater, so I’m afraid

I’l have to charge extra.”

“Don’t care.” Jim didn’t.

“Wish more customers were like you, Mr. Raynor.”

The man smiled. “I receive messages at this

address.” He slipped Jim a data card. It was too dark

and Jim was too drunk to read it anyway, so he

merely nodded. “If you don’t hear from me, feel free to

stop by,” the man suggested. “Quietly. With a little bit

of luck, you’l be hearing from one Mr. Myles

Hammond of Shiloh very soon.”

He named his fee; Jim paid it; they shook hands;

and Jim returned his attention to the dancers. His

heart felt somewhat eased, and he realized just how

much this had been weighing on him. He even felt

better about the deal they had struck with Scutter

O’Banon. At least it would keep the walking nightmare

that was Ezekiel Daun at bay.

He ordered another beer, stretched out his long

legs, and smiled at the buxom beauty gyrating near

him. She responded by closing one heavily made-up

eye in an inviting wink.

The sun was merciless and cruel, and when the

door to the room Jim had reserved for the night

opened and the men who entered pul ed the shades,

Raynor was hard-pressed not to yelp in agony even

as he reached for his gun and trained it on the

intruders. He blinked, lowering the gun as he

recognized Cadaver.

“Baines? What the hel are you doing here?”

The girl beside Jim, significantly less lovely in the

harsh morning light, muttered and ducked her head

back under the covers.

“Mr. O’Banon has just learned that you have

received an encrypted message from Shiloh.”

Jim was so muzzy-headed it took him a few

seconds to catch up with Cadaver’s words. From

Shiloh? Already? Damn, that … whatshisname was

good.

“That was fast,” he said, moving as quickly as his