StarCraft II: Devils' Due (35 page)

snarling in anger. Heard it issuing commands. Heard

it pathetical y begging.

Jim’s hand slipped into the other pocket and closed

on the handle of his Colt.

He didn’t answer at once. Partly because he

wanted the bastard to sweat. And partly because he

didn’t trust his voice.

He relaxed his grip on the revolver, though he kept

his hand on it. He had not come here as a vengeful

murderer. He had come here for something else

entirely.

“Who is this?”

“A ghost from your past, Colonel. Just the past,

coming back to haunt you.”

There was silence. The thunking noise continued. “I

know that voice. Come over to where I can see you!”

Vanderspool barked.

“Of course,
sir
.”

He moved slowly to where the light seemed

greatest. There was movement as Vanderspool

craned his neck to look at him. Their eyes met.

“Raynor,” Vanderspool said quietly.

“The same. You don’t look so good, Colonel.”

Silence.

“Your dog got caught. But not before he tipped us

off as to who was holding the leash.”

“You always were so damn smug,” snarled

Vanderspool. “You and Tychus. Wel , Tychus isn’t

going to be seeing sunlight anytime soon. I wil be

content with that. And I’ve spent quite a lot of money

making sure my facility is secure. You might have

gotten in, but any second now you’l be stopped. I’l

have you. I always get what I want in the end.”

“You got the others,” Jim agreed. He drew out the

Colt, as always admiring the craftsmanship. “Your

sick dog filmed everything. You two probably watched

the holograms together while he fed you popcorn. But

you ain’t getting
me
, Colonel. There’s a balance in

this universe. I knew that once, and then forgot it. But

I’ve had a lot happen to me since then, and I

remember it now. When I learned who was behind

Daun, I wanted to kil you so bad, I could have ripped

you apart with my teeth.”

Despite his bluster, Vanderspool had to know that

help wasn’t coming. It would have been here by now.

Why should it? Jim was a duly hired employee. He

had access to this room. The weight of the gun was

familiarly heavy in his hand.

“Yes, brave, noble outlaw James Raynor,” drawled

Vander-spool. “How tragical y wronged you were. You

rob from the rich, give to the poor, help little old ladies

across streets, no doubt. It takes such courage to

shoot a completely harmless man trapped in an iron

lung.”

Jim smiled in the dim light. “See, that’s the whole

point, Colonel. You ain’t never gonna be harmless as

long as you draw breath—even if you have to rely on a

machine to draw that breath for you. Only reason

you’re even alive is that you’re just too ful of hate and

twisted darkness to die properly the first time like you

shoulda done. That’s partly my fault. I was so damned

angry, I couldn’t see straight.” The moment was as

clear in his mind as if it had been one of Daun’s

holograms. Vanderspool, wounded, clutching his

shoulder and sobbing. Begging for a medic. Offering

to pay.

Pay. Like the soldiers he had tried to kil , control, or

turn into resocialized zombies would accept money

from him to tend his injury.

Vanderspool had first tried Tychus, then Kydd.

Raynor had deliberately stepped on the man’s hand

as the bastard reached for a weapon, crunching the

fine bones and relishing the screaming that resulted.

He had fired a metal spike into Vanderspool’s chest,

watched him slump and, he thought, die. There had

been a harsh pleasure—and then an ashy emptiness

as he realized that he had become part of what he

most loathed.

He had spent five years running since then. He

thought he’d been running
to
something—but he’d

been running
from
it. It was time to end the running.

It was time to end a lot of things—and to begin

others.

“But I can see clearly now. And I know what has to

be done.”

“You can stil get out of here alive,” Vanderspool

said. “Just walk out the way you came in. Tychus

Findlay is going to rot in prison. I can afford to let you

go.”

Jim stared for a moment, completely taken aback

by the sheer arrogance of the man. Then he laughed.

It echoed in the large room.

“You stil think you’re in charge. Directing the show,

even if you can’t act in it anymore. I used to hate you.

Now I just feel sorry for you. And not because you’re

stuck in that contraption, neither. I feel sorry for you

because al you got is hate, and control, and greed. I

got more than that. But as long as you’re alive, I’m

stuck down here in the mud with you, Vanderspool.

And I’m aiming to final y crawl out of the mud.”

“I’l pay you.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’d like. Enough for you to be

comfortable the rest of your life. You don’t have to do

this. I’l leave you alone, I swear.”

Jim shook his head, disgusted. He lifted the gun, as

he had so many times before. With his thumb, he

eased back the hammer, hearing the familiar and

distinctive series of clicks. Vander-spool heard it, too,

and actual y whimpered.

“Please … look at the sort of life I’m consigned to,

Raynor. Surely this is revenge enough!”

Incredulous, Raynor snorted, even more surprised

by this tactic than Vanderspool’s arrogance. “You’re

not helpless, and you fekking know it. You’ve done

more harm from here than most people do in their

whole lifetimes. From this damned coffin, you hired

Daun. From here, you took delight in watching the

Heaven’s Devils fal , one by one. Because that’s al

you got, you sick shit. You’re a rabid dog,

Vanderspool. You wil continue to harm, and

contaminate, and destroy as long as you are

permitted to exist. Even if you did keep your word to

let me alone, which we both know you won’t, some

other poor bastard is going to pay for some imaginary

sin against you. You’l never stop. You’l think of

another person, and another, and another. I once shot

you in hate. I ain’t doing that again.”

“Your revenge—”

“Don’t you get it?” Jim shouted. “This ain’t about

revenge. This is about justice. About restoring the

balance. About taking something dark and ugly out of

the galaxy once and for al , so that something—

something decent and good—can grow instead.”

He strode up to Vanderspool and gazed down at

the remnants of the man. The face was pale, the eyes

sunken. The being before him was so shriveled, so

worn, that Jim almost hesitated. But then the lips

thinned, the eyes flashed with hate.

No. Vanderspool’s body might be crippled, but the

essence of the man was as vile and as strong as

ever. “This is for the Heaven’s Devils,” Jim said

quietly. “For everyone who was their friend. And for

everyone whose life you have ruined along your way

to this moment.”

He kept his gaze locked with Vanderspool’s as he

pul ed the trigger.

The gunshot was shockingly loud and seemed to

go on forever. Slowly, Jim lowered the gun, not

flinching at the sight of the ruined face. This time there

was no sick gnawing at his gut that he had become

the thing he despised. Nor hot, glorious, righteous

delight.

Just peace. Just quiet in his soul.

The rabid dog would never harm anyone, ever

again.

The hologram that had been playing in his mind’s

eye shifted. It was no longer of him standing over

Vanderspool and shooting him.

Instead, he saw his father, and heard words that

echoed more loudly in his soul than that final gunshot

in his ears.

Do you remember what I used to tell you, Son? A

man is what he chooses to be … a man can turn his

life around in a single thought, a single decision.

You can always choose to be something new. Never

forget that.

I won’t forget, Dad. I won’t. Maybe I’m not the man

you thought I’d be … but that don’t mean I’m not

capable of being what I choose.

Jim looked at the gun for a long moment,

remembering when his fingers had first closed about

it; how it had fitted his hand perfectly; how he had felt

at that instant that it had somehow been waiting for

him—that it had been made just for him. And perhaps

it had been: made for the man who was a thief and a

criminal, who pointed it at innocent, frightened people.

It stil fit his hand, but it no longer fit
him
.

Slowly, James Raynor placed the antique Colt

Single Action Army revolver on top of the metal coffin,

turned, and walked out.

JANINE’S

The bar was one of the smal er, friendlier ones

Jim had run across. Cleaner, too, and brighter. Of

course, he was here in the middle of the day, not at

oh-dark-thirty like he usual y was when he visited such

establishments, so that probably made at least some

difference.

He’d ordered a beer. One. Without Scotty Bolger’s

Old No. 8. And he’d been nursing it for the better part

of an hour, settling his lanky frame into an old,

comfortable chair and simply thinking and observing.

Oddly, he found his thoughts turning to Marshal

Wilkes Butler. He and Tychus had made fun of the

marshal’s methodical, unimaginative pursuit of them.

And yet … Jim found himself respecting the man.

Tychus and he had been almost impossibly wily—half

the time, because they never knew what they were

going to do themselves. And yet, Butler had come

after them time and time again, doggedly, doing

everything by the book, until final y he’d gotten at least

one of them. He’d not been seduced by Daisy’s

charms, nor used underhanded methods, nor ever

employed greater force than was necessary. He’d

been—and Jim was surprised to find himself thinking

this—a decent man.

Janine’s was more of a gathering spot than a

watering hole. There were few hard drinkers here, and

the food was actual y pretty good. Standard stuff for a

bar—skalet burgers and fries and such—but some

fried range hen was also on the menu that the bar

owner, the cheerful y hefty brunette Janine, made

fresh herself every day. He was gnawing on a

drumstick when the door opened.

“Afternoon, Liddy!” cal ed Janine. “The usual?”

Stil chewing the delicious range hen—Janine used

some kind of spice that made it real y zingy—Jim

turned idly to see the newcomer.

She was slim and tanned and exuded that

wholesome fresh-scrubbed appeal that women strove

to attain through artful y messy hair and makeup

careful y applied so as to not look applied at al . This

woman didn’t need to bother with artifice to look

beautiful y natural.

Her long blond hair, the color of the triticale-wheat

his family used to harvest back on Shiloh, was tied in

a careless braid and draped over her shoulder. Her

eyes were sky blue and crinkled at the edges when

she grinned. Her tanned face had just the faintest

smattering of freckles.

“Heya, Janine. You bet: it’s a hot one today.” Her

voice was as cheerful and warm as the rest of her.

Jim lifted an eyebrow as something sunny yel ow

was plunked down in front of the newcomer.

“Don’t tel me that’s lemonade,” he said before he

could stop himself. It wouldn’t be made from actual

lemons, of course. It was synthetic, but everyone had

their own recipe, adjusted to their particulars.

“Best in the county,” Janine said with pride.

“The county? Janine’s range hen, potato salad,

cobbler, and lemonade beat any other meal on the

whole planet,” asserted the incredibly gorgeous girl.

“Okay, you got me curious. I’l agree with you on the

chicken, so, Janine, a lemonade here, too, please.

And this lady’s serving is on me.”

The girl raised a golden eyebrow and toasted him

with the beverage. A moment later Jim was drinking

something cool, tangy-sweet, and utterly refreshing.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had had