“That’s the plan,” Tychus confirmed. “With the Kel-Morians on the run, and our people in hot pursuit, the brass have been forced to push two convoys a day out of Port Haaby. But once they deliver, most of the trucks come back empty. And that’s a waste of taxpayers’ money, wouldn’t you agree? Not to mention vespene gas.”
Sims blew a column of smoke up toward the lamp and chuckled. “So when do we get paid? And with what?”
“We get paid on delivery,” Tychus answered. “We’re talking silium crystals. They’re small, lightweight, and you can sell them anywhere.”
“I like it,” Sims said approvingly, “or I will, assuming that the split makes sense.”
Tychus knew that was coming, knew that the other man held the upper hand, and knew he knew. So he was negotiating from a position of weakness. “Each of us will take a third of the proceeds,” Tychus said, “minus three percent each to pay the drivers and guards.”
Sims shook his head. “Nice try, Sergeant… . Calvin deserves a third, given all he’s bringing to the deal, and so do I. But what makes you so valuable? Your good looks?”
“My looks are an incredible asset,” Tychus responded dryly, “but so are my connections. I’m the one who knows the customer and that’s why I get thirty percent.”
Sims was silent for a moment, as smoke from their cigars merged to join a common cloud. Finally, based on some personal calculus, he nodded. “Okay, Sergeant … you’ve got a deal. But it’s important to move fast. A logistics team is scheduled to arrive in three days. They’re going to count, label, and bar-code every item in this warehouse. So tell Calvin to get his ass in gear.”
“I will,” Tychus promised, as he got up to leave.
“Good,” Sims said gruffly, and offered the box. “Grab a handful.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Tychus replied, as he settled the rifle sling over his shoulder. Then opening an enormous paw, he brought it down on the neatly ranked cigars, and made a fist. Once the hand was withdrawn, Sims realized that the box was nearly empty! He was about to object, but Tychus was a good six feet away by that time and headed for the door. A deal had been made.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I solemnly affirm my duty to support and defend the planets of the Terran Confederacy against all enemies, interstellar and domestic. I further affirm that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and that I will strive against any and all threats to the continued progress of mankind in this sector.”
THE PLANET SHILOH, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN
Jim Raynor’s swearing-in ceremony took place in the town of Centerville, where everyone knew the Raynors. So after Trace parked the truck, and the family made their way toward Main Street, all sorts of people came up to shake Jim’s hand and exchange a few words with his parents. Trace’s hand never left Jim’s shoulder. Jim was beaming with pride.
About fifty people showed up to witness the moment, a crowd that grew larger when a government-chartered bus pulled up in front of the colonial courthouse and sighed wearily as it came to a stop. Fifteen recruits got off. And even though most had joined earlier that morning, they swaggered around the town square as if they were combat veterans, much to the amusement of some real veterans who were sitting on a bench.
In spite of all the well wishers, there was something a little bit sad about the dusty courtroom, the tired-looking bunting that had been draped across the front of Judge Guthrie’s bench, and the limp flag that drooped from a pole. Guthrie did his best, though, administering the oath as if it had been handed down from on high, while pausing at regular intervals so Raynor, Tom Omer, and the other recruits could repeat the words after him.
Rather than the sense of excitement he thought he’d feel as he prepared to leave his home planet for the first time, Raynor felt a vague sense of foreboding instead, but put the emotion down to the fear associated with going off to marine boot camp. A hellish place by all accounts, where brutal drill instructors ruled, and recruits were routinely abused. But all for a good purpose, or so Gunnery Sergeant Farley had assured him, while processing his application because “boot camp produces marines! And we’re the best of the best.”
There were handshakes all around, and lots of hugs, as Raynor worked his way out of the courtroom and onto the front steps. Then it was time to say one last good-bye to his parents. Much to Jim’s embarrassment, his mother had packed a lunch for him, and tears were rolling down her cheeks as she kissed him. “Don’t forget to write… . We’re going to miss you so much.”
Trace Raynor didn’t say a word, but it was all there in his eyes and the strength of his grip. Jim’s heart swelled with emotion, but he gritted his teeth and managed a weak smile. This is it, Jim thought, and a moment later was left to the mercies of a noncom named Corporal Timson who, if he had a first name, never chose to share it.
Timson was dressed in a reasonably clean uniform that was at least one size too small for him. Raynor noticed that there were four five-year pins on his left sleeve, which indicated that he’d been in the Corps for more than twenty years. So, either he’d been broken from a more lofty rank, or had been unable to rise above the rank of corporal. Neither of which spoke very well of his performance.
Whatever the case, Timson appeared worn out and eager to leave. “All right,” he announced to those who had been sworn in earlier, “it’s time to get back on the bus. We haven’t got all day, you know.”
Raynor gave a final wave to his parents and boarded the bus, carrying a small satchel and his lunch. There was a center aisle with seats on both sides, and a storage rack above.
Some of his fellow recruits were already aboard, shooting the breeze with each other or fiddling with their fones. The back of the bus appeared to be empty, so Raynor headed there and sat on the bench-style seat that ran from side to side. He looked around for Omer.
Moments later a boisterous group of young men entered the cabin and paused to give one of the girls some unwanted attention before shuffling toward the back. Their leader, a gangly red-haired youth, led the way. Fekk! Raynor’s stomach dropped when he recognized Harnack, and one of his father’s well-worn phrases came rushing back to him. “Trouble is like a boomerang—the harder you throw it, the faster it’ll come back at you.” Why did his old man always have to be right?
Whether he knew it or not, Harnack had become the butt of a lot of jokes around town the last couple weeks, thanks to Raynor and his iron fists. But now, as Raynor pretended to look casually out the window, he knew the bastard was looking for trouble, and could feel it coming straight for him. When he heard Harnack’s boots stop short midway through the aisle, Raynor knew he’d been spotted.
Harnack pretended to sniff the air. “Damn! What’s that smell?” Then, as if seeing Raynor for the first time, Harnack pointed at him. “Here’s the problem… . Somebody took a dump in the back of the bus!”
Harnack’s toadies erupted into laughter.
“What have we here?” Harnack demanded, as he snatched Raynor’s lunch sack off the seat. “This yours?” Then, having dropped it on the floor, Harnack stomped it. “Oh, sorry … must’a slipped. Too bad there aren’t any farmers around to protect you now.”