StarCraft II: Devil's Due Page 6

  “They could be loading cargo,” he said. “All units, let’s go.”

  Marshal Wilkes Butler and his entire staff, save for a skeleton crew left behind, arrived a few moments later at the location the transponders indicated. He sat on his bike for a full minute, digesting what he saw.

  Of course, there were no planet-hoppers, with Jim and Tychus busily loading cargo.

  There were two vultures. And that was it. No one said anything. There was only the tick-tick of engines cooling and the sound of a wind kicking up. One of the bikes fell over.

  “They switched the transponders,” said Butler, with unnatural calm. “They broke into a marshal’s depot. Stole two space-worthy vehicles. Switched the transponders and had time to hire a girl to come make sure our faces were rubbed in it.”

  His men glanced at one another uneasily but wisely stayed silent.

  Butler dismounted and walked to the remaining standing vulture and glared at it, his hands on his hips. His eyes narrowed, and he reached down and plucked out a tiny microphone.

  “Findlay? Raynor? Listen and listen well. You think you’re so clever. I make you a promise, boys. You come on my world again, and I will have your asses thrown in jail so fast, it’ll take an hour for your heads to catch up with them. You got that?”

  And he threw the tiny mic down on the rocky soil, crushing it beneath his boot heel with more savage energy than any of his men had seen in him before.

  Safely out of reach, Tychus Findlay and James Raynor were laughing so hard, they couldn’t talk.

  “Oh, man,” breathed Jim, “that was too much. I couldn’t fly straight there for a moment.”

  “Hell, Jimmy, you couldn’t fly straight if you were sober as a preacher and had nothing else on your mind.”

  “I ain’t been drinking!” Jim retorted.

  “Maybe you should be,” Tychus replied. “Might help you straighten out.”

  Tychus was right. Their current careers necessitated that they become jacks-of-all-trades. They’d flown a lot of vehicles in their day, and so could manage an attempt at almost anything. Just not very well. It would probably have made their departure from New Sydney quite comical to watch, if anyone had been watching. They’d opted to take two, just in case the law got onto them and they had to split up. Such a tactic had often worked well for them. Now, though, Jim wondered if maybe they should have just picked one: perhaps both of them in a single vessel might have made for one good pilot.

  Jim glanced at the viewscreen to see the other small vessel ahead and slightly to the right. He snorted; Tychus was still weaving.

  “You’re one to talk. I’ve seen four-year-old girls who were better pilots than you.”

  “Maybe we should enlist them into our gang, then. We could use a decent pilot.”

  Jim laughed. “Speaking of girls,” he said, “although a bit older—how the hell did you talk Daisy into going in to see ol’ Butler?”

  “Girl’s sweet on me. She’ll do anything I ask.”

  “And anything for money,” Jim added. “Sweet or not, girl’s got a lockbox for a heart. All of Wayne’s girls do. How much did it set you back?”

  “Not a single cred.”

  Jim was so surprised, he found himself drifting, and pulled on the yoke to resume a straight course. “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmmm. Told her I’d pay her when I got back.”

  “And she agreed to that?” Jim was surprised. “Again?”

  “Told ya, Jimmy boy. Tychus Findlay has charm.”

  “Well, then you better be putting it to good use, because we’re going to need to get permission to land.”

  “Don’t need charm, Jim. Daisy did a bit more than delay ol’ Butler. I told her exactly how to disable a certain part of their communication grid while she was waiting for him. It’s gonna take them a while to figure it out and then replace it. Until then, no official messages going out, and in the meantime, we got us two official law enforcement vehicles. Watch this.”

  Tychus’s voice took on a calm tone. “Horley Barton Space Station, this is Officer Tyler Whitley and my partner, Officer John Tanner. Here for the routine inspection. Requesting permission to dock.”

  “You guys are early. Hasn’t been a full month since last time.”

  “Vacation time coming up,” Tychus said.

  An understanding chuckle. “I understand, sir. We are ready to receive code.”

  Code?

  Shit …

  Tychus’s voice came over the private channel. “You better rustle up a code, Jimmy, or we need to beat one hasty retreat….”

  Frantically Jim started searching the planet-hopper’s computer. A disturbing number of codes began to scroll across the viewscreen. Jim cross-referenced them with the name of the station.

  “Any time now, Jimmy,” came Tychus’s laconic voice.

  “I am going as fast as I can,” snarled Jim.

  “Officer Whitley? Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Tychus said, his voice smooth and calm.

  Jim’s heart was racing. There. That one looked promising, and he stabbed a finger down to transmit it to the station.

  There was a long pause.

  Jim blinked. “They gotta be onto us. I told you we shouldn’t have sent Daisy in. Butler’s probably already notified them.”

  “Keep your panties on, Jimmy. Butler’s fast, but he ain’t that fast. And sometimes the easiest way to get into a place is just to walk through the front door. These are legit planet-hoppers. The numbers checked out just fine.”

  “Yeah, hot legitimate planet-hoppers. They’re going to be reported as stolen within ten seconds if this code doesn’t—”

  “Transit beta four-zero-five-two, you’re clear to dock, Officers. Please proceed to docking bay 39, ports A and B. Enjoy your stay.”

  Jim closed his eyes and exhaled in relief.

  “Thank you kindly,” Tychus said, as if there never had been any doubt of anything at all.

  Jim flanked Tychus as they headed for the space station. He could see docking bay 39 and ports A and B directly ahead, on the second tier of the slowly spinning station. There certainly didn’t seem to be anything amiss.

  “So far, so good,” Jim remarked.

  “That’s true enough. But within about five minutes, you and I will be mixing with the populace of the station and heading for our freighter loaded down with crystals,” Tychus pointed out.

  Jim relaxed. It wasn’t like they’d never done things like this before. They’d just never done it in stolen law-enforcement vessels. A furrow creased his brow for a moment as the thought came, unbidden, of the one-way conversation with Myles. About how his mother wouldn’t accept her son’s money because of where it had come from. She would have a few choice words, he was sure, about him being in a stolen law-enforcement vehicle.

  Raynor punched a couple of buttons with unnecessary vigor before he found the right one and a map of the station appeared. It was extremely basic, laid out on an easy-to-follow circular grid. Public docking bays formed the outer, widest layer, C. As Raynor maneuvered the small vessel, doing his utmost to fly casually, he could see that all kinds of ships were docked there in ports of varying sizes, from small one-person ships to several extremely large ones. Most of them looked as if they’d seen better days.

  The second level, B, the one to which he and Tychus had been directed, seemed to have more workmanlike vessels. This layer was designated “Station/Governmental Vessels.” A, the top layer, had fewer docking bays, and they were much larger. This level obviously catered to VIPs, either actual ones or those who had enough money to be regarded as very important personages.

  “Our freighter’s going to be on C,” Raynor said to Tychus. “Looks like there are about two dozen landing areas large enough to accommodate it.” He touched the screen and found the stairs. “Man, this is gonna be cake.”

  “Providing we can actually land these babies,” Tychus said.

  “Yeah, it would kind of b
low our cover to crash as we dock,” Jim said.

  “Then straighten up and fly right.”

  The Horley Barton Space Station, as befitted such an out-of-the-way place, was more than a little run-down, outdated, and lax in security. After Raynor had landed and figured out which door opened the hatch of the small vessel, he was greeted by a bored worker with a data log—a device that enabled him to read data chips and most likely gave him access to information about all the ships on the station. The worker was clad in dark-blue overalls with a patch that proclaimed his name as Crawford. He had at least a day’s growth of stubble and vacant eyes, and was chewing something with more enthusiasm than he had displayed while checking out Raynor’s falsified credentials.

  “Yep, Officer Tanner, you’ve got the run of the station,” Crawford said, turning his head to spit with a pinging sound into a metal urn of some sort. He took a square piece of plastic, stuck it into the slot of a machine on the side of the wall, and sat back for a moment while it hummed and clicked, then spat out the plastic square.

  “My partner, Officer Whitley, and I need to investigate this freighter,” Jim said, handing Crawford a data chip with the ID of the desired vessel on it. “And we’ll need the area cleared out. We think it might be stolen.”

  Vague interest flickered in the man’s hazel eyes before subsiding. “Stolen, huh? Let me see that.” Crawford read the information and tapped in a number on his data log.

  “Okay … that baby’s gonna be in docking bay 22, port C. Let me notify security and send you in with some backup.” He turned to do so.

  Jim lifted a hand, projecting calm certainty. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. The quieter this job is, the better. No need to start a panic. Officer Whitley and I simply need the area unobtrusively cleared out.”

  Crawford eyed him. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. The Red Mesa County Municipal Enforcement Department will offer a sizable reward to station staff members who cooperate and who are directly responsible for the apprehension of the criminals.” Which was sort of true. Of course, Jim was talking about the reward that applied to him and Tychus, who were about to be the thieves he was claiming to chase.

  That got Crawford’s attention. “Really?”

  Jim smiled and fished in his pocket, counting out a not-inconsiderable number of credits. “In fact,” he said, “I’ve been authorized to pay particularly helpful individuals in advance. There should be more upon completion of the operation,” he added, handing them over to Crawford.

  “I see,” Crawford said, pocketing the credits after counting them quickly. “Jax Crawford at your service, Officer. I’ve given orders to security to clear out the area around docking bay 22, port C, and to leave you and Officer Whitley to do your thing.”

  He smiled a little, and Raynor realized that Jax Crawford wasn’t quite as stupid as he had seemed. He was, however, as greedy as Jim had hoped. Raynor stuck out his hand, and Crawford shook it heartily.

  Raynor stepped out into the corridor, speaking quickly and quietly into a small handheld personal comm link. “Docking bay 22, port C, got it all cleared out for you.”

  “Already there, and it’s nice and quiet. Get your ass up here ’fore someone decides it’s too quiet.”

  Raynor picked up his pace. Fortunately, it seemed as if everyone on the station were in a hurry to be somewhere other than where he was; as long as he didn’t adopt an out-and-out run, Jim knew he would be fine. He saw Tychus up ahead, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. Which, being Tychus, wasn’t very. He nodded at his friend and they met at the door to 22C. Jim inserted the key the helpfully bribed Jax Crawford had given him, and the door slid open. They stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it.

  The freighter was nothing remarkable. A few years old and a type of vessel as common as dirt, it had seen a lot of use. Neither Jim nor Tychus much cared for the ship itself, only what it contained in the hold. Quickly they got inside and headed back. Here, too, there was nothing that announced the bounty the ship contained. Simply standard large storage containers.

  “We can’t open them,” Raynor said.

  “We don’t need to worry about that,” Tychus replied. “That is the problem of whoever takes them off our hands.”

  That still left the question of verification. And then Jim saw the data log resting on top of one of the crates. He thumbed it quickly and grinned.

  “By virtue of our brilliance, balls, and outrageous good looks,” he said to Findlay, “we are now the proud, if not exactly legal, owners of exactly fifteen storage crates of crystals.”

  Tychus grinned back. He reached into his jacket pocket, fished out a stogie, lit it up, and blew smoke into the air. “Well, ain’t we just the finest pair of gentlemen on this station?”

  “Now let’s be the finest pair of gentlemen off the station,” Jim suggested, heading back toward the cockpit. “I assume your contact specified a site?”

  “He did. We’re to meet on Hermes.”

  Hermes was one of three moons that lit up the night skies of New Sydney. Something about the name was familiar, and Raynor suddenly laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just remembered a class from my childhood. Hermes was an Old Earth mythological god.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “He was the god of merchants. And thieves.”

  Tychus chuckled around his glowing cigar. “Plays both sides, then. Think I like this god.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HERMES

  As a vacation spot, rather like the planet it orbited, Hermes left a great deal to be desired. And yet, it seemed to attract quite a lot of visitors. It was spartan, enclosed, and while the atmosphere was breathable, for the right amount of money it could be doctored so that one would be better able to enjoy one’s stay. Bars served intoxicants of all varieties, inhaled, injected, and in liquid form. Jim was somewhat surprised when they entered a particularly dark establishment called, quite aptly, The Pit, and Tychus steered him not toward the wall of alcohol guarded by a very muscular, scarred bartender but to another area where various-sized tanks were suspended. They ranged from about the size of Tychus’s fist to the size of his arm.

  “I’m in the mood for a drink, not a puff, at least not without knowing what’s in there,” Jim said, frowning.

  “Ah, Jimmy, trust ol’ Tychus Findlay,” the larger man rumbled. He plopped down a handful of credits. “Keep it coming all night,” he told the attractive, tattooed young woman. “For me and my innocent young friend here.”

  She grinned, pulled down the larger-sized tank, and attached a hose to it, then repeated the gesture for Jim’s benefit. He still had no idea what was in the tanks, but he shrugged mentally. There were times, he knew, when he just had to jump and trust that Tychus knew what he was doing.

  Of course, sometimes he didn’t.

  The woman—the tank-tender? He wondered what you called someone in this profession—glanced back at Tychus. “You want it here, or you want to take it with you? You’ll have to pay a deposit if you take it.”

  “Sounds fine, honey. I want to be able to move tonight, if you know what I mean.”

  He gave her a broad wink. By this point Jim was utterly confused. She reached below the counter and brought out two harnesses.

  “Didn’t know you were into that sort of thing, Tychus,” Jim said blandly.

  Tychus laughed. “Not that kind of harness,” he said. And sure enough, Jim realized that it meant that they could simply carry the canisters with them. Tychus needed an extra large one; Jim was equipped with a medium. They strapped the contraptions on, shifting so the canisters lay comfortably on their backs and fastening buckles around chest and waist, and Jim felt slightly better to see that they weren’t the only ones wearing them.

  “Take a puff,” Tychus urged, inserting the nose plug into his right nostril and inhaling. Tentatively, Jim did the same. And then laughed.

  “It’s air!” he said.

/>   “Oxygen, more precisely,” Tychus confirmed. He took another deep inhalation.

  “How come?”

  “Jim,” said Tychus, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “what do you like to do most?”

  “Sleep with women.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Drink.”

  “Exactly. Because of the composition of Hermes’s atmosphere, you’d be under the table if you had three normal drinks. With this harness on, you can drink maybe even more than normal. Life is good.”

  “Tychus, you’re a genius.”

  “Hell yeah,” Tychus said. He let out a melodramatic sigh. “Sometimes it’s hard, Jimmy boy. Damned hard.”

  While a staggering variety of characters who could charitably be described as “colorful” and more accurately described as “unsavory” made their way into and out of The Pit, Jim knew instantly when their contacts wandered in about an hour later.

  There were five of them: three men and two women. One of the men was tall, with black skin that gleamed as if oiled in the dim, smoky light of The Pit. He had one golden hoop in his ear, as did most of the others. The other two men had skin that was almost ghostly pale, as if they seldom troubled to venture forth into actual sunlight. They looked hard and worn and ready for anything.

  The women were similar: well-muscled, as the men were, with a few more piercings and almost as many tattoos. One of them was smaller, with dark-blond hair. The other was almost warrior-womanesque in her proportions, with black hair, blue eyes, and, yes, bones in her nose and ears. All of them wore sleeveless shirts or vests

  They were greeted with raucous whooping from some other patrons and with enthusiasm from the bartender. The five of them swaggered in as if they owned the place, and for all Raynor knew, they did.

  Among the five was a man about ten years older than Tychus. He was sharp-featured and thin but ropy with muscle. He hung back slightly as the other members of his crew grabbed drinks or old friends. Small eyes that missed nothing scanned the room and then settled on Tychus. Thin lips parted in a grin, showing a gold tooth. He walked over to Jim and Tychus with the glide of a predatory cat.