StarCraft II: Devils' Due (2 page)

toward its final destination, where it would disgorge

its precious cargo.

Two men waited in the cool shelter of a cave,

watching the silvery serpentine object. They were

silent, but it was an easy silence, and the only sound

was the inhalation of one of them as he sucked

smoke from a glowing cigar one final time, dropped

the stogie, and crushed it out with a single step from a

massive boot.

“Let’s go ride that pony,” said Tychus Findlay. Next

to him, not in any way a smal man but looking

comparatively tiny next to the giant that was Tychus,

was a shaggy-haired, bearded man who was already

sitting astride a vulture hoverbike. He gave his friend

a wicked grin.

“Move your ass, then, slowpoke,” he said, kicked

the bike into life, and charged down the sloping ravine

toward the maglev train. Tychus swore, jumped on his

own bike, and took after Jim Raynor at a reckless

speed.

It was at times like this that Jim Raynor, former

marine lance corporal, proud citizen of the

Confederacy and erstwhile farm boy, felt most alive.

At the speed at which he was urging the vulture, the

wind cooled his face so that the oppressive heat

vanished. He felt like a wolf hunting down his prey,

except the purpose of today’s adventure was not the

death of a living being but the death of the empty state

of Raynor’s and Tychus’s wal ets. This was a cargo

train, not a passenger train, and inside its silvery

innards was—if Tychus’s tip was right, and Jim had

every reason to believe it would be—a very lovely,

very large safe fil ed with Confederate credits.

“Why, it’s a rescue mission, Jimmy,” Tychus had

rumbled, his blue eyes dancing with good humor as

he had fil ed Raynor in on the plan. “Those poor creds

—they’d just be condemned to lining the pockets of

some Old Families who don’t need any more money.

Or else put to some nefarious scheme that could hurt

somebody. It’s our duty—hel , it’s our
calling
—to

liberate them creds to where they could do something

that real y mattered.”

“Like buying us drinks, women, and steak dinners.”

“That’s a good start.”

“You’ve got a heart of gold, Tychus. I’ve never met

such an altruistic man in my life. I got goddamn tears

in my eyes.”

“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

Jim grinned as he recal ed the conversation. He

and Tychus were behind the train, catching up to it

quickly. He stayed right and Tychus veered left.

Tychus crossed over the maglev tracks, adjusting the

magnetic frequency on his bike to compensate so

that he, like the train itself, could cross easily. Jim

increased his speed, moving alongside the maglev

until the right car came into view. He and Tychus had

spent hours analyzing al kinds of transportation

vessels over the last few years, sometimes simply

from blueprints or images, but usual y up close and

personal, as they were about to do now. They had

“liberated” other credits before—it seemed to them

like hundreds of thousands over the years, although

the liberated credits never seemed to stay with them

very long. That was al right too. It was part of the ride

that life had become.

“Careful, boy. Don’t move ahead too fast,” came

Tychus’s gravel y voice in his ear. “I ain’t coming back

for you if you drop in on the wrong car.”

Raynor grinned. “Right. You’d just take al the creds

and hightail it out to Wicked Wayne’s.”

“Damn straight. So hit the mark.”

Timing was crucial. Raynor sped up even more,

glancing down at his controls to see the smal dot that

represented Tychus doing the same. He knew they

were mirror images of each other after doing this as

often as they had over the past five years.

“Upsy-daisy,” Tychus said. In unison, they hit the lifts

and rose vertical y so the vultures—customized within

an inch of their lives—were now flying, if not as high

as their namesakes, then at least slightly higher than

the train’s roof. The uniquely modified hoverbikes

landed, bumped the top of the train, landed again,

and the two men had them clamped and locked down

within half a second—the magnetic locks also

custom-instal ed for exactly this purpose. They leaped

off the bikes. Next step: getting to the back of the car,

climbing down, opening the door, and seeing who

comprised the welcoming committee.

At that precise instant, the train took a bend and

brought them right into a crosscurrent of wind. The

sudden sharp movement threw Raynor off balance.

He fel hard and started sliding toward the edge.

Tychus’s gloved hand shot out and grabbed the neck

of Raynor’s vest while he threw himself down, reached

up, and seized the secured vulture.

Raynor jolted to a halt. Adrenaline shot through him,

but not fear. He’d done this before, too, and he was

prepared. He took a second to get his bearings, then

pointed. One hand on the bike, the other clutching

Jim, the bigger man moved Raynor about a third of a

meter until he was facing the end of the car rather than

the side.

“Hold my legs!” Raynor shouted to Tychus. Tychus

grunted, releasing the vest col ar, then grabbing first

Jim’s belt and then his ankle as Raynor slid forward.

Raynor pressed a button and activated the powerful

magnets embedded in his vest. Between these and

Tychus’s near-bone-crunching grip on his ankle,

Raynor wasn’t going anywhere. Normal y he’d try to

drop down on the smal platform at the back of the

car, but the train was stil going through what seemed

to be a damned wind tunnel, and time was of the

essence once they’d landed with what had to have

been an audible thump on the roof of the thing. Raynor

stretched forward far enough so he could get one arm

down and felt about quickly but blindly. There it was:

the top of the door. Not the ideal place to plant the

explosive, but it would have to do.

He fished out the smal device from his pocket,

tapped in the activation code, slapped it on the door

as far down as he could put it, deactivated the mag

grips, and yel ed, “Pul back! Pul back!”

Tychus yanked him back so hard, Jim felt the

exposed part of his arms burn from the friction. It

wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t mind too much, as

he was safely away from the explosion, which shot

black smoke and bits of debris in al directions.

“Don’t suppose you got anything resembling a look-

see?”

“Nope,” Jim said. Stil lying down, he grabbed his

pistol from his holster, shot Tychus a grin, and said,

“What? You scared of dropping in on a bunch of

Confederate guards?”

“Not me, little girl,” Tychus said. His own weapon

was strapped to his back. He reached and pul ed it

out: an AGR-14 that looked as mean as Tychus

himself. “Let’s go.”

Tychus dropped to his bel y beside Jim, and they let

the very speed of the train move them forward. They

slid to the edge, and at the last minute each man shot

out a hand, gripped the top of the train, and flipped

down, somersaulting into the cabin, ready to attack.

They were greeted by no one.

“Aw, shit, Jimmy,” Tychus said. “This ain’t the car

with the safe!”

Indeed it was not. It was crammed to the brim with

cargo: instruments, statuary, furniture, al careful y

wrapped up and secured. No doubt there was a

fortune here, but it was nothing they could do anything

about.

Jim half expected Tychus to slap the back of his

head, but the man was already moving forward to the

end of the car. “You were supposed to have done your

research,” Tychus muttered.

“I did,” Raynor said. “Seventeenth car. They must

have changed—”

Raynor was fol owing, pistol out but pointed down,

when a curious shape caught his eye. Tychus was

wrestling with the door, so he permitted himself to pul

back the protective covering.

His eyes went wide.

“We’re gonna have to blast this one too, looks like

—Jimmy, what the hel are you doing back there?”

Raynor paid him no heed. He tugged more, and the

covering slipped away.

“I think I’m in love,” he breathed as his eyes took in

the beauty of the antique in front of him.

“You say that every time we visit Wayne’s,” Tychus

muttered, but swung his head back to see what had

Jim so distracted. “What the hel is
that
?”

Jim felt as though he were having a religious

experience, and indeed the item he was gazing at

worshipful y reminded him of the old-style stained-

glass windows he had seen images of. It was a piece

of furniture, though, huge and solid and curved at the

top, like a window. Glass of bright colors covered its

front, and if it was what Raynor thought it was, those

curving tubes of glass would light up when the thing

was activated. And inside—oh, inside was where the

treasures were.

“I’m not sure—I’ve never seen one before, but I think

… I’m pretty sure it’s a jukebox,” Raynor said,

reaching out a gloved hand to touch the curving metal

and wood and glass construct.

“I am no more enlightened than I was before,

Jimmy,” Tychus growled, “and time is wasting.”

“A jukebox is an old, old method of playing music,”

Raynor explained. “Music used to be pressed into

vinyl disks cal ed records. There might be up to a

thousand songs in here—songs that no one’s heard in

maybe a couple hundred years.”

“You and your old-fashioned crap. First the Colt,

now this.” They had done one robbery, early on, of the

summer home of one of the lesser Old Families of the

Confederacy. The place had been oozing valuable

antiques, and when Raynor had stumbled across a

Colt Single Action Army revolver hundreds of years

old, he’d had to have it. It went with him constantly,

although he had more contemporary weapons as wel .

Getting bul ets made for the antique was expensive,

so he rarely fired the thing. He just liked the feel of it

on his hip. Tychus had rol ed his eyes then the same

way he was rol ing them now. “Nice history lesson,

Professor. Now, let’s get our asses outta here. We

stil got a safe to blow.”

Tychus was right. Raynor gave the old machine a

final pat and turned to fol ow Tychus.

Final y, with a muttered grunt and a wel -placed

heave of his shoulder, Findlay opened the door,

stepped out, placed the second explosive device on

the door of the car ahead of them, and then ducked

back into the car with Jim. Both of them dove for

cover as the device detonated.

Raynor grimaced, for two reasons. One, they

usual y only brought four sets of explosive devices

with them: one to blow the door, one to blow whatever

safe they were trying to open, and two as backups.

Which they had just used. There had better be only

one last door between them and their goal, or else the

Confederate credits would not get liberated after al .

Two, they’d have to make a stand here, in this room,

and the jukebox might get hit. He found he was

unreasonably distressed by the thought.

Even before the smoke cleared, the first few rounds

of gauss rifle fire came through the blown-open doors,

spraying down the contents of the room. There was a

clang as metal struck and pierced metal, and pieces

of wood splintered and flew up in the air. Crouched

down behind what seemed to be an upright piano,

Raynor didn’t dare raise his head to see if his jukebox

had taken any damage. He’d find out soon enough.

Tychus, with a roar, rapidly closed the distance

between himself and the guards and began slamming

them with the butt of his rifle. They were taken

completely off guard, having expected an in-kind

firefight and not anticipating that they would be rushed

by an apparent madman. At such close quarters, they

couldn’t fire lest they harm one another, and Tychus

and Jim whooped as they either knocked the hapless

fel ows unconscious or tossed them off the train

through the blown-open doors. Tychus kicked the rifle