Starcraft II_ Heaven's Devils Part 3

Now Ark was beginning to understand why his mother hadn't wanted him to attend the meeting and why his father had insisted that he do so. Lisa Bennet wanted her son to pursue an academic career both as a way to "give something back," as she put it, and to insulate him from the family's financial dealings.

But his father wasn't having any of that. "We need both an heir and and a spare," Errol Bennet had said. "After all, what if something were to happen to Tara?" a spare," Errol Bennet had said. "After all, what if something were to happen to Tara?"

Which was fine, except that Ark didn't want to be a "spare."

Such were the young man's thoughts as Errol Bennet surrendered the platform to a guest speaker, who launched into what promised to be a very boring lecture on the need to raise colonial property taxes even higher so as to better recover the cost of military protection. Because on a per capita basis it was more expensive to defend a spa.r.s.ely settled fringe world than a densely populated planet like Tarsonis. A perspective that was likely to find plenty of support from those in the chamber.

As the talk began, Ark got up from his seat and made his way downstairs. A quick check confirmed that his father's bodyguards were nowhere to be seen. That made sense, given all of the security in place around the university, and the fact that Errol Bennet could summon them within a matter of seconds if necessary.

So it was easy to slip out for a breath of fresh air. Getting back in would be a lot more difficult, of course, but Ark had plenty of ID, so there was no reason to be concerned. Having departed the carefully manicured campus, Ark felt his heart begin to beat faster, as he slipped into the city he viewed from afar each morning.

There were risks a.s.sociated with what he was doing, Ark knew that, but the danger of walking the streets alone was far outweighed by the pleasure of doing so. Besides, Ark intended to limit himself to no more than an hour of stolen freedom before returning to the university.

Gradually, as the young man put some distance between himself and the campus, the upscale housing that bordered the university gave way to tenand fifteen-story apartment buildings. They were part of a working-cla.s.s neighborhood called Hacker's Flat. The name that harkened back to an era when the area had been home to a number of farms.

Most of the street-level s.p.a.ce was taken up by family-run bodegas that sold everything from deep-fried meat pies to high-end electronics. At least some of which were probably stolen. The sidewalks were cracked, the side pa.s.sageways reeked of urine, and every accessible surface was covered with multiple layers of graffiti.

Lots of people were out and about, as was a small array of roving robots, each of which was equipped with a small holoprojector and enough artificial intelligence to match advertis.e.m.e.nts to the person it was pitching to. So it wasn't unusual to see an Advertising Artificial Intelligence that looked like a sonic clothes cleaner morph into a scantily clad young woman as it dashed across the street to present a different message to a businessman.

So during the time it took Ark to walk a block he was approached by what appeared to be a five-foot-tall tube of underarm deodorant, a man who wanted him to "answer a few questions," and a nonprofit AAI looking for a donation. The machines were annoying, but he easily avoided them by circling around them and continuing on his way.

Ground transportation consisted of everything from powered speed skates to much-abused cabs and delivery trucks. They were often double-parked and subject to fines levied by an armada of traffic sensor feeds.

Ark estimated that he was less than a mile from the university at that point, but realized he had never ventured that far into the city without an armed escort before. So, just to make sure he had his bearings, Ark paused to bring up a street map on his fone. He took comfort from the icon that marked his position within the Hacker's Flat grid-and the knowledge that a couple of leftor right-hand turns would take him back to the university. After a quick look around to compare his surroundings to the image on his fone, Ark put the device back into his pocket.

It was a small thing. One that would have been completely unremarkable had it taken place within the context of a fashionable sky mall, but took on special meaning on the grimy streets of Tarsonis, where predators were eternally on the lookout for anything that might identify a possible victim. Such as a map.

Three locals took notice of the young man's moment of uncertainty, plus the fancy jacket he was wearing, but only one of them chose to follow up. Her name was Camy. She had long black hair, doelike eyes that looked even larger thanks to a generous application of makeup, and a pouty mouth. Camy's b.r.e.a.s.t.s were too large to be real, and were only barely contained by a leather vest that was cut in at her waist and decorated with silver ornaments. The girl's matching pants were so tight, they looked as if they had been sprayed onto her long, tapered legs. Ankle-high boots completed the outfit, and made a sharp rapping sound as Camy pa.s.sed her prospective mark, and provided him an excellent opportunity to appreciate her shapely behind.

Having arrived at the next corner a good fifteen seconds ahead of the unsuspecting teenager, Camy examined a sc.r.a.p of paper and frowned before shoving it back into her purse. As the young man arrived she turned and smiled. "Excuse me ... I think I'm lost. Could you tell me how to get to the nearest bus station?"

"Yes," the mark said agreeably, "I think I can," and brought out his fone.

That would have been enough for a s.n.a.t.c.h-and-sprint artist, who would have been half a block away in a matter of seconds, soon to disappear into a maze of pa.s.sageways. But Camy couldn't run in her high-heeled boots, and was after a bigger prize, although the mark's top-of-the-line fone might wind up in her purse as well. So as he brought the map up and began to scroll, Camy allowed her arm to touch his, and knew that her perfume was sure to reach his nostrils.

"Thank you so much!" Camy said gratefully, as the fone went back into her mark's pocket. "I was lucky to run into someone who knows the area so well."

"Not that well," the young man confessed modestly. "I'm a stranger here, too."

"Really?" Camy inquired, as her big brown eyes flirted with his. "Then I guess you wouldn't be able to recommend a restaurant. It's almost noon and I'm hungry."

Though no expert where young women were concerned, Ark knew an opening when he heard one, and was quick to respond. "I'm quite hungry myself... . There's got to be a restaurant around here. Perhaps you might give me the honor of buying you lunch."

The girl's face lit up. "That would be fun! How 'bout that place over there? It's close and wouldn't take either one of us very far out of our way."

That made sense to Ark, who felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment at having snagged such a pretty girl, and was careful to summon up his best manners as they crossed a busy arterial. He offered his elbow and she cheerfully latched on. The pub was called Jake's, and as Ark followed the girl past the wooden bar to a booth in the back, he noticed that a number of patrons turned to look. Of course that made sense, given how pretty she was.

Ark was thrilled when the girl invited him to sit down next to her rather than on the other side of the table. "My name's Laura," she said, "Laura Posy. And you are?"

"Ark," the teenager replied artlessly, unsure as to whether it would be dangerous to give his last name if she demanded it.

But if the lovely Laura was troubled by the breach of etiquette, there was no sign of it as she placed her left hand on his right thigh. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ark," she said warmly. "Let's see what's on the menu."

By that time Ark was pretty sure that he was sitting next to a very attractive prost.i.tute, which meant that if he played his cards correctly, he might be able to score the sort of experience he had heard other, more worldly boys brag about! And, as if to reinforce that notion, Laura gave his leg a gentle squeeze.

Ark's sandwich was surprisingly good. It consisted of a fresh roll, heaped high with sliced skalet meat, which was nearly invisible under a blanket of melted cheese. He didn't remember ordering a beer, but a.s.sumed that it came with the sandwich, and missed the moment when his companion pa.s.sed a hand over it.

Ten minutes later, as Ark was finishing the sandwich and wondering how to broach the subject foremost on his mind, he began to feel a bit dizzy. Was the beer to blame? Yes, probably, although Ark was no stranger to alcohol.

He a.s.sumed the feeling would pa.s.s, especially if he left the beer alone and switched to water. But even as his mind processed the thoughts, the world around him seemed to slow. It became increasingly hard to focus and his head felt incredibly heavy. Then, it came to him: Laura was more than a hooker, Laura had slipped something into his beer, and Laura had plans for him!

There was just enough time to process a feeling of mixed embarra.s.sment and shame before his forehead crashed onto the plate in front of him. Ark heard slow motion laughter as two men came back to pick him up. He felt himself being carried for a short distance before being placed on a soft surface-maybe a cot. It swayed alarmingly, fell into a black pit, and took Ark along with it. His outing was over.

CHAPTER SIX.

"'Insubordination' is just a fancy word for 'washout recruit.'"

Lieutenant Marcus Quigby, Fort Howe, Turaxis II May 2488 THE PLANET RAYDIN III, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN.

A full day had pa.s.sed since the meeting with Gunny Sims. Drops of blood-warm rain were falling, and Tychus could hear the muted rumble of thunder as he made his way over to the main street. Civilians and soldiers alike were moving faster as they sought shelter from the coming deluge.

Tychus would have done likewise had he been free to do so, but he was due back at Company HQ by 1600 hours local, where he and the other members of the Tactical Response Squad would sit around and shoot the s.h.i.t until they were relieved at midnight. Which, based on a twenty-six-hour day, made for a long watch. There was plenty of comm gear at headquarters though-and all it would take was a quick call to Master Sergeant Calvin to set the illicit scheme in motion.

So rather than enter a bar for some well-deserved R&R, Tychus marched uphill to the north end of town. That was where his CO had set up shop in the same two-story office building where one of his Kel-Morian counterparts had been doing business just a few days earlier. The sentry posted outside the front door nodded, but didn't ask for ID, since n.o.body looked like Tychus except Tychus.

The noncom had to duck his head to clear the top of the doorway, which opened into an airlock, followed by the spa.r.s.ely furnished office beyond. Supplementary oxygen was being pumped in through the air conditioning system, which made it possible to remove his nose plugs and let them dangle on his chest.

The office was decorated with a well-executed drawing of the Kel-Morian outriders' famous death's head logo, plus dozens of scrawled signatures. Dead men for the most part-all buried in a ma.s.s grave outside of town. There were two desks up front, and Corporal Proctor was sitting at one of them. She looked up from her work as Tychus entered.

Proctor was pretty in an understated, no-nonsense sort of way and completely uninterested in casual s.e.x, which was the kind that Tychus specialized in. Her bangs were straight, her eyes were gray, and Tychus saw what might have been a warning in them. "The captain has been looking for you," she said, without inflection. "He's in his office."

Tychus's face was impa.s.sive, but alarm bells were going off in his head, because "Captain Jack," as his marines referred to him, was one of the few people in the Confederacy who scared him. Not physically, because the officer was no match for Tychus, but in other ways. Captain Jack Larimer was not only mean as h.e.l.l, he had an inexplicable tendency to volunteer his unit for dangerous missions, and that was a threat to the most important person on Raydin III: Tychus Findlay.

So it was with a sense of trepidation that Tychus placed his rifle on a wall rack and approached the open door. He rapped three times and waited for the word "Enter!" before taking the requisite three paces forward. A lot of officers would have forgone such formalities under the circ.u.mstances, but not Captain Jack. "Staff Sergeant Tychus Findlay reporting as ordered, sir!"

Captain Jack was about thirty years old and loved to run. There were some people who said he could run the a.s.s off a wheel. And because of that he was not only lean but very sure of himself. In fact, self-confidence seemed to ooze out of every pore of the officer's whipcord-thin body as he lounged behind his desk and took pleasure in the fact that a man like Tychus had to follow his orders. The smile arrived slowly. "At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat."

Tychus accepted the invitation, settled his weight onto a metal chair, and waited to find out what kind of s.h.i.t detail his CO had in store for him. It didn't take long.

"I'm going to take the Tac Squad out on a mission tonight," Captain Jack announced, "and you'll be second in command."

Tychus nodded woodenly. "Yes, sir. What's the objective?"

"We're going after a civilian collaborator," the officer replied. "A man who took money to provide the enemy with information about his neighbors."

"Sounds like a picnic, sir," Tychus commented. "Why wait? Let's pick him up now."

"I said he was a civilian," Captain Jack replied. "What I didn't didn't say is that he lives about fifteen miles north of here, in a fortified house, on top of a hill. There have been periods of civil unrest on Raydin III-and his home was built to take some punishment. So a bit of circ.u.mspection is in order. We're going to dress like Kel-Morians and arrive in a Kel-Morian transport, which was captured along with the town. It was in need of some repairs, but our people put the ship right and it's ready to lift." say is that he lives about fifteen miles north of here, in a fortified house, on top of a hill. There have been periods of civil unrest on Raydin III-and his home was built to take some punishment. So a bit of circ.u.mspection is in order. We're going to dress like Kel-Morians and arrive in a Kel-Morian transport, which was captured along with the town. It was in need of some repairs, but our people put the ship right and it's ready to lift."

"So if we arrive at night, the collaborator will believe we're there to pick him up," Tychus mused, "and allow us to land unopposed."

"Something like that," Jack agreed vaguely. "Round up your men, get some food in them, and order the duty driver to take you down to the warehouse where the stuff we captured from the Kel-Morians is stored. Do you know Gunnery Sergeant Sims?"

Tychus felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. "We've met ... yes."

"Good. He'll help you get the team set up with all the proper gear. Meet me at the landing strip at 2000 hours. And don't be late, Findlay... . You know how that p.i.s.ses me off."

Tychus knew it was time to leave, and stood. He was halfway out the door when Captain Jack stopped him. "One more thing, Sergeant... . Bring a rocket launcher. We might need it."

After spending a couple of hours getting ready, Tychus and his squad drove onto the airstrip at precisely 1930, thereby ensuring that they would have plenty of time to run one last check on the team prior to liftoff. Lightning flashed in the eastern sky as the big truck came to a halt and the marines bailed out.

All the necessary arrangements had been made by Corporal Proctor, so none of the Confederate soldiers opened fire on what appeared to be a squad of Kel-Morian outriders splashing across what had been a city park, to the row of aircraft parked beyond.

Kel-Morian battle dress was a good deal less formal than the color-coded gear issued by the Confederacy. In fact, in many cases the protective gear that each soldier wore consisted of CMC armor plating patched together with pseudo-leather padding. The uniforms were covered with guild symbols and insignias that marked their specialty, a tradition that started all the way back with Moria's original mining guilds. The rippers were known to be the best-equipped soldiers in the Combine, but even they had a preference for Confed armor when they could get their hands on it; a fresh coat of black paint easily erased its origins-and the blood the soldier surely would have spilled in procuring it.

The Kel-Morians knew where the improvised airstrip was, of course, but there was no reason to make the war easy for them, so, with the exception of handheld lamps and the spill of light that came from inside the Kel-Morian dropship, the entire area was blacked out. However, out beyond the area that was under the direct control of the military, some of the local citizens were making no effort to comply with the blackout, and the marines lacked sufficient personnel to chase them down.

"All right," Tychus said as his team a.s.sembled next to the ship. "Pair off and check each other's gear. Wa.s.ser, you're with me."

Corporal Wa.s.ser, better known to the rest of the squad as "the troll," was short but extremely powerful. So strong, in fact, that it was necessary for Tychus to actually exert himself to beat Wa.s.ser at arm wrestling.

But Wa.s.ser's real real claim to fame was his relationship with Captain Jack, which some likened to the bond between a man and his dog. Tychus knew that if Wa.s.ser was present, Captain Jack wouldn't be far away, and that proved to be the case as the squad members completed their checks and trooped into the cargo bay. Captain Jack, now claim to fame was his relationship with Captain Jack, which some likened to the bond between a man and his dog. Tychus knew that if Wa.s.ser was present, Captain Jack wouldn't be far away, and that proved to be the case as the squad members completed their checks and trooped into the cargo bay. Captain Jack, now Overseer Overseer Jack, according to the Kel-Morian insignias on his clothing, was chatting with the pilot. Once the squad was aboard and properly strapped in, he came back to sit with them. Jack, according to the Kel-Morian insignias on his clothing, was chatting with the pilot. Once the squad was aboard and properly strapped in, he came back to sit with them.

"Lock and load," the officer said, as the engines ran up and the Kel-Morian dropship wobbled into the air. "We'll be over the target in about five minutes."

The trip was so short there wouldn't have been any reason to use a transport if it hadn't been for the deception involved. But Tychus was glad of it, because the faster they could complete the mission and return, the sooner he could check on Operation Early Retirement. Calvin was supposed to send two trucks in at 0300 and Tychus wanted to be present.

Both of the ship's side doors had been removed to make way for an automatic weapon on one side and a rotary rocket launcher on the other, both of which were manned by helmeted crewmen. The slipstream blew cold air and rain in through the doors, but Tychus was glad of the openings nonetheless, because they allowed him to catch an occasional glimpse of the countryside whenever a bolt of lightning crackled across the sky.

As the ship flew north he saw cl.u.s.ters of lights and knew he was looking at homes that should have been blacked out. And that raised an interesting question... . Since he could see them-did that mean they they could see the ship? And would they recognize it as a Kel-Morian aircraft if they did? could see the ship? And would they recognize it as a Kel-Morian aircraft if they did?

The fact that the dropship was flying low, only a couple of hundred feet off of the ground, seemed to suggest that it would would be identifiable during a lightning flash. Tychus felt something cold trickle into his bloodstream. Did Captain Jack be identifiable during a lightning flash. Tychus felt something cold trickle into his bloodstream. Did Captain Jack want want people to spot the Kel-Morian aircraft? And if so, why? people to spot the Kel-Morian aircraft? And if so, why?

There was no way to know as the ship banked and circled to port. That revealed a brightly lit house. The The house, or so Tychus a.s.sumed. house, or so Tychus a.s.sumed.

Captain Jack was communicating with the pilot via his helmet comm, and while Tychus couldn't hear what was said, he saw the officer's lips move. Tychus wondered why he had been cut out of the conversation. Normally, as Captain Jack's number two, Tychus would have been privy to all the interactions on the command channel. So was this an anomaly? Or was the officer hiding something? There was no way to know as the transport lost even more alt.i.tude and the circle tightened.

Tychus, who was seated opposite the opening on the port side, caught a glimpse of a large house, outbuildings, and a landing pad with civilians running every which way. Then he saw the strings of lights and realized that a party was under way. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off as spikes began to rattle against the fuselage. "That's what we've been waiting for," Captain Jack said grimly, his voice flooding all of their helmets. "Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have it."

The rocket launcher was on the starboard side of the dropship and therefore pointed upwards. But the gauss cannon was operational and it sent streams of red tracers down to explore the estate below. Men, women, and children were tossed about like rag dolls as the supersonic spikes found them. Empty casings flew through the air, bounced off the deck, and rolled away.

But the battle wasn't one-sided. The door gunner's head jerked as a spike smashed through his visor, scrambled his brains, and blew a gout of goo out through the back of his helmet. As he fell a marine stepped in to take his place.

Tychus was out of his seat by then and hurried to confront Captain Jack. "I suggest that you tell the pilot to land this thing now, sir! The transport makes an easy target."

"Soon," the officer agreed grimly, as a shoulder-launched rocket exploded against the hull. "Let's make sure everyone in the area sees the markings on the ship first."

Now Tychus understood the real real reason for using the Kel-Morian dropship and the disguises. The Confederate civilians weren't collaborators, they were something else, dissidents perhaps. People the government planned to eliminate. And having seen the ship's markings, witnesses would report the attack as a Kel-Morian raid! Thereby reinforcing all of the Confederacy's propaganda about enemy atrocities. reason for using the Kel-Morian dropship and the disguises. The Confederate civilians weren't collaborators, they were something else, dissidents perhaps. People the government planned to eliminate. And having seen the ship's markings, witnesses would report the attack as a Kel-Morian raid! Thereby reinforcing all of the Confederacy's propaganda about enemy atrocities.

And the plan would probably work unless Captain Jack got them all killed, which appeared to be increasingly likely as more enemy fire hit the hull, and holed it. A marine screamed as a piece of shrapnel took his leg off just below the knee and a corpsman rushed to his side. "Put it down, sir! Put it down now now," Tychus insisted as he stared into Captain Jack's stony eyes.

"You're a coward, Findlay," the officer replied tersely as a bullet came in through the open door, hit metal and ricocheted past his head. "And I'll have you up on charges the minute we return to base."

Enraged, Tychus lifted his weapon and smashed Captain Jack in the side of the head. The officer was wearing a helmet, but the rifle b.u.t.t hit so hard it broke through the protective sh.e.l.l, and delivered a blow to the company commander's skull. The ship dropped ten feet, then recovered as the pilot fed more power to the retros. Tychus stumbled back.

Captain Jack's unconscious body was still falling to the floor as Wa.s.ser uttered a roar of outrage. He jumped onto Tychus's back and called for reinforcements. Tychus managed to drop the marine who came straight at him, but when two more tackled his legs, he went down. Wa.s.ser wrapped two hands around Tychus's throat and cut off his air supply. Tychus felt the ship vibrate as the pilot maxed the retros, wondered how he could have been so stupid, and fell into a black hole.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Of the thousands of new soldiers recruited into the Confederate armed services over the past few months, there have been several dozen complaints filed with the Bureau of Personnel regarding illegal drafting. The bureau claims that these allegations of unsanctioned conscription are unfounded and based on 'the typical panic and unrest found in civilian populations during wartime.' Out of respect to our audience, UNN has chosen to drop this investigation until tensions dissipate to peacetime levels."

Max Speer, Evening Report Evening Report for UNN May 2488 for UNN May 2488 THE PLANET TARSONIS, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN.

The unconscious boy lay on the cot with his eyes closed and his arms hanging down to the floor as Camy rifled through his pockets and two men looked on. The wallet was right where she expected it to be, inside the still morphing jacket in a self-sealing pocket.

The con artist kept her back to the onlookers as she opened the leather folder and went straight for the cash. Bills ... nice. Bills ... nice. Camy knew right then that she'd snagged a good one. It was rare to find bills these days-especially among the low-life scabs she usually came across in Hacker's Flat. Camy knew right then that she'd snagged a good one. It was rare to find bills these days-especially among the low-life scabs she usually came across in Hacker's Flat.

Having stuffed the cash into her bra, she took an inventory of the rest. And that was when she saw the name "Ark Bennet" on a holocard, and frowned. Could it be? Could the naive, slack-jawed youth lying on the cot really be the scion of the famous Bennet family? After shuffling through the rest of the boy's wallet, she concluded that he was. Not because she'd seen him on the vids, but because of the name. She'd never met anyone named "Ark" before-much less an "Ark Bennet."

Camy's first reaction was greed. How much would the Bennet family be willing to pay to get their boy back? A hundred thousand? A million million? The notion of a ransom was tempting. Very tempting. But it was scary, too ... because the Bennet family was extremely powerful, and the moment they reported their son missing the Tarsonis Police Force would scour the city looking for the boy. The thought of that, and what they might do to her, made Camy's heart pound.

There was another party who would be willing to buy Ark Bennet, however. He wouldn't pay as much as the Bennets would, but the transaction would be a lot safer, and would put a layer of protection between Camy and the police.

"So, pay up," one of the men demanded. "We've got some serious drinking to do."

"Don't worry," Camy replied. "I will. I'll pay ten each, plus whatever you can get for that jacket, which will be ten times more. It could be traceable though, so take it at least six blocks away, and sell it quick. That goes for the rest of his stuff, too. I want one of you to strip him down-while the other goes for some street clothes. The faster we do this the better. So move move!"

The grubby, smoke-filled room was located over the one-time garage that had long served as Harley Ross's command post, and there was a strong possibility that he was the most unkempt recruiting sergeant stationed on Tarsonis. Something the marine was proud of, because while other noncoms were spending their time in upper schools, strutting about and telling lies about how wonderful the Marine Corps was, he was out sifting through working-cla.s.s neighborhoods where only two out of ten teenagers finished school and work was hard to find. And his numbers were better than anybody else's. Which explained why Captain Fredricks left him alone.

So that's where the recruiter was, playing cards with three of his cronies, when his fone began to rattle on the table just as Dicer upped the ante. A sure sign that he had a winning hand. So rather than throw good money after bad, Ross looked at the incoming number and flipped the device open. "Hey, sweet cakes, what you got for me?"

The other men watched cynically as Ross nodded, said, "I'll be right over," and broke the connection. "Don't tell me," Dicer said. "Let me guess. I raise the ante and you have to leave."

Ross smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that, but duty calls! There's a war on, you know... . Somebody has to keep the Kel-Morians at bay, or they'll land on Tarsonis and go after your wife."