StarCraft II: Devils' Due (7 page)

causes. With selfish, evil people—

Jim hadn’t even left a note for Misty. He hoped to

be back before she woke, and if not, he knew she’d

simply shrug and get on with her day, with her life. The

message from Myles Hammond had told him too little

and too much, and both things had put him in a foul

mood. And when he was in a foul mood, he tended to

not want to be responsible. Besides, the wind in his

hair felt good.

He veered to the left, to the remains of a building so

nearly obliterated that it was impossible to tel what

kind of function it had served in better times. It was

large, so Raynor guessed it was a public building of

some sort. Saloon, hotel, magistrate’s office—al

were hideously equal in the aftermath of a war.

He brought the vulture to a halt. He checked his

fone. According to the navigation system on the

vulture, the coordinates that his old friend Myles had

sent him should be just a few steps ahead. Raynor

trod careful y over the broken lumber and shattered

plascrete. And there, partial y obscured by the pile of

rubble in which it had landed, was what he had

expected to find.

The beacon was an older model, smal and

decidedly not sleek. But it served its function. Jim

nudged it with his toe and debated with himself.

He didn’t want to find out what it said. He real y,

real y didn’t want to. There was no way in hel that

anything Myles had to say to him at this point in his life

was going to be good news. His hangover was

receding but stil there, crouching in the back of his

mind like some dark beast. He rubbed at his beard.

But he did have to find out what it said. He owed

the man that much—he owed
himself
that much.

Sighing, Raynor squatted down, pressed a button,

and activated the beacon.

A holographic image of Myles Hammond

appeared. Jim hadn’t known Myles when he had hair,

but the fringe that had encircled his head above the

ears was now snowy-white rather than gray. He had

always been lean, but now he looked even thinner. Al

in al , he looked older than Jim remembered him—

older than a mere five years should have aged a man

—but that was no surprise. War and time did that to

people.

But Jim suspected mostly war.

“I’ve always been a blunt man,” said Hammond’s

image, “and I don’t beat around the bush. Jim, you

need to come to Shiloh, and you need to come soon.

There’s issues with the money you been sending to

your mom.” The hologram sighed. “She ain’t taking it,

Jim. She’s getting by, thanks to something cal ed

Farm Aid. By that I mean she’s getting food and the

basic comforts, but …” The image looked flustered. “I

can’t tel you what I need to this way. We need to talk

in person. Come on back to Shiloh. Come on home.”

The image flickered and disappeared.

Raynor stared at the spot where the image had

been. What did Myles mean, “issues” with the money?

Why wasn’t his mother taking it? He couldn’t go back

to Shiloh. Myles knew that. What was going on? His

mother needed that money. Had needed that money

for a long time, since before his father had died. It

was the reason he had joined the military in the first

place—to help out with money back home—and now

there were “issues” …?

His eyes narrowed. Was what Myles had said real y

true? The whole thing was real y kinda strange, when

you thought about it.

Anger flooded him. He swung his leg back and was

about to boot the beacon al the way to Shiloh. He

gritted his teeth, turned, and kicked out at a rock

instead. He wished he could tear this whole place

down around him with his bare hands. He forced the

anger down and ran a hand through his wind-tousled

hair, then made his decision.

He knelt beside the beacon and erased the

message on it. Thumbing a button, he heard it click

and hum and come to life as it recorded.

“Can’t come to Shiloh, and you know it. I got the

heat al over me. And … tel Mom to take the damned

money.”
Somehow. Get her to take it, and you better

not be touching one lousy credit yourself.
He thought

of Karol Raynor, that steady, stable, wise woman, and

swal owed. “I don’t care how you do it; just
do
it. And

don’t contact me anymore unless you gotta.”

And that was al he had to say, real y. For al his

comments about being a man who didn’t beat around

the bush, Myles was being very cryptic. Raynor ended

the recording. He tapped in a few coordinates, flicked

a button, and the beacon whirred and vibrated for a

bit before retracting its landing legs and moving

slowly skyward, hovering there for a moment before

suddenly shooting straight up.

It was going home, to Shiloh.

Jim Raynor wasn’t.

TARSONIS CITY, TARSONIS

Ezekiel Daun’s duster moved with him, bil owing

about his calves as he strode fluidly down the long,

dim hal way. In one hand he carried a smal satchel.

His booted feet were muffled by carpeting as he was

led through the building by a cheerful, smiling young

man. The high-rise was a maze of corridors and

elevators and secured rooms, most of which looked

identical, so Daun supposed it was logical to assume

he might get lost.

He knew, however, that such a concern was not the

real reason for the guide. He had been examined—

politely and courteously and with many apologies, but

stil frisked—when he had arrived. The guard had

worn an expression similar to the white-clothed man

who was leading him at the moment; apparently the

boss man wanted al his employees to be

resocialized. Daun imagined that made them easier

to manage.

Al his employees, of course, except those he had

to go outside his little group to hire.

Like Daun.

“And these are the master’s quarters,” the

resocialized servant, or resoc, said, stopping in front

of a large door. In contrast to the sleek, modern,

artistic feel of the rest of the high-rise, this door

looked somber and forbidding. It would take a lot to

break through the thick neosteel door, and the keypad

on the right demanded not just a code, but fingerprint

and retinal scans as wel . Humming a little to himself,

the resoc entered the code and submitted the other

verifications of his identity. After a moment, with a

groan of protest, the door slid open. It was even more

dimly lit inside than in the corridor, and initial y Daun

could see nothing.

“He’s expecting you,” the resoc said. “Please go on

in.”

“Thanks,” Daun said.

“I’l be waiting right outside to take you back when

you’re finished.” The resoc beamed as if the prospect

of this made him deliriously happy.

“Of course you wil .”

The attendant’s smile never wavered as the door

slowly closed.

Daun’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He wasn’t

sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn’t it. There

were various computer stations and other pieces of

equipment in the room, outfitted with many blinking

lights and operated by resocs who did not give Daun

a second glance. But that was not what so intrigued

Daun.

What intrigued him was a large metal coffin. Or at

least, it looked like a coffin. Lights chased one

another along the outside, and several tubes went in

and out from smal apertures. Another caretaker

stood discreetly off to the side in front of a screen on

which statistics rol ed constantly, and a strange

bel ows-like contraption moved slowly overhead.

There was a rhythmic noise, a sort of dul thunk, that

occurred every few seconds.

There was one thing that made it significantly

different from a coffin, however.

A head was sticking out at one end.

Daun smiled a little at the contraption. His smile

widened at the sound of a voice, hol ow and echoing

and obviously artificial y enhanced.

“Ezekiel Daun,” the voice rumbled.

“The same,” Daun said.

“I presume you have brought good news.”

Ezekiel shrugged as he opened the satchel. “Wel ,

if you cal this good news, then it’l make your day.”

He reached into the satchel, grasped something,

pul ed it out, and tossed it in the direction of the iron

lung.

Bouncing and rol ing, the head of Ryk Kydd came

to a stop and stared sightlessly back at Daun. His

expression was frozen in stark, utter horror, the eyes

shut, the mouth open.

“Bring it here,” the voice ordered. “Let me see it.

Quickly, you idiot!” One of the resocs stepped

forward. His face betraying nothing but calmness, he

grasped the severed head by its hair and lifted it up,

showing it to the man in the iron coffin.

The only sound for a moment was the rhythm of the

machine.

“It’s a start, Mr. Daun.” The resoc stepped back,

casual y holding the head as he awaited further

instructions.

Daun narrowed his eyes.

“I believe you have two more left, don’t you? Don’t

come back until your satchel bulges with two other

trophies: Tychus Findlay and James Raynor.”

Daun grinned. “Don’t worry, old man. They’re next.”

He inclined his head and went to the door. He rapped

on it, and it opened. The resoc awaited him, smiling.

“Seems like you like your job an awful lot,” Daun

said to the resoc.

“Why, yes, sir, I do.”

“So do I.”

* * *

company.

Curled up spoon fashion in his arms was the lovely

Daisy. She was sleeping soundly, snoring just a little

bit. In Daisy’s arms was Annabel e, also dead to the

world. Behind Tychus, her arm draped over his waist,

was Anna-Marie, and snuggled up with her was

Evangelina.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice did not belong to any of the four beauties

currently sharing his bed. Tychus opened one eye.

Staring down at him was what seemed like a

walking cadaver. Impossibly lean and gaunt, with eyes

that were large and intense, the man stood with his

hands clasped behind his back.

Several responses went through Tychus’s head, but

al of them involved disturbing the ladies, who seemed

quite comfy where they were, thank you very much. So

he chose the one option that didn’t disturb them. He

blinked at the man, sighed, and languidly reached for

a cigar and a lighter. Daisy and Annabel e shifted

slightly but otherwise did not seem to be awake.

Tychus blew a long stream of smoke upward.

“You got about two seconds to tel me who you are

and what you want ‘fore I get real nasty.”

“Who I am is not important,” Cadaver said in a thin,

reedy voice. He did not appear at al intimidated. “I

am in the employ of one Scutter O’Banon, and he sent

me with a proposal.”

Tychus continued puffing. The girls were starting to

awaken but, taking their cue from him, merely stared

at the newcomer.

“Friend of yours?” asked Daisy sleepily.

“Wel , honey, that remains to be seen,” Tychus said.

“Tel me more about this proposal.”

“You’ve caught Mr. O’Banon’s attention, Mr.

Findlay. You and your col eague, Mr. Raynor. You’ve

managed to impress him, and he’s not a man who

impresses easily. He’d like for you to join his

organization. He thinks you’d be very valuable assets,

and he would treat you accordingly.”

“Wel ,” Tychus said, sitting up and letting the sheets

fal around his waist. “That’s a mighty flattering thing to

say. Mr. O’Banon is quite the powerful fel ow, ain’t

he?” He scratched his bel y absently. “Now … I

respect power. I real y do. But you know what I respect

more?” He waited.

The man gave an exaggerated sigh. “No, Mr.

Findlay. What do you respect more?”

“Money.”

Cadaver nodded. “Mr. O’Banon understands that

sort of respect. He intends to give you quite a bit of

money.
Quite
a bit.”

“How much?”

“As I’m sure you can understand, I cannot reveal

figures, because we do not know what sort of

assignments Mr. O’Banon wil have for you. Let me

put it this way.” He pointed at the girls, who were lazily