Free StarCraft II: Devils' Due by Christie Golden Page B

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