StarCraft II: Devils' Due (10 page)

“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 actual y land these babies,”

Tychus said.

“Yeah, it would kind of blow 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run-down, outdated, and lax in security.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 smal 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 al the ships on the station. The

worker was clad in dark-blue overal s 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 wal , 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’l 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 wil 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. “Real y?”

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 smal handheld personal

comm link. “Docking bay 22, port C, got it al 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 helpful y 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 stil 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 bril iance, bal s, 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. “Wel , 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.”

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 al varieties,

inhaled, injected, and in liquid form. Jim was

somewhat surprised when they entered a particularly

dark establishment cal ed, quite aptly, The Pit, and

Tychus steered him not toward the wal 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 al night,” he told the attractive,

tattooed young woman. “For me and my innocent

young friend here.”

She grinned, pul ed down the larger-sized tank, and

attached a hose to it, then repeated the gesture for

Jim’s benefit. He stil had no idea what was in the

tanks, but he shrugged mental y. 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 cal ed someone in this profession—glanced back

at Tychus. “You want it here, or you want to take it with

you? You’l 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.”

“Hel 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 tal , 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: wel -muscled, as the men

were, with a few more piercings and almost as many

tattoos. One of them was smal er, 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. Al 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 al 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.

Smal 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.

“You must be Tychus Findlay,” the man said, in a

voice that was deep as a crater and smooth as oil.

“That I am,” Tychus replied, puffing on the air tank

as if he were puffing on his more familiar stogie. “This

here’s my partner, Jim Raynor. And you have just got

to be Declan Moore of the Screaming Skul s.”

The gold-tooth grin widened. “We don’t take pains

to hide our identity, not here,” he said. “I understand

you have a freighter ful of shinies for us.”

Tychus glanced around. “Let’s drink first and

discuss business later.”

“I told you, we don’t take pains to hide our identity

here, Findlay.”

“Yeah? Wel , I do.”

There was a tense moment while the two men sized

each other up. Tychus could obviously snap Declan’s

neck with one meaty hand. But Raynor had seen

enough to know that the skinny pirate leader probably