Starcraft Ghost Nova by Entertainment Blizzard & Keith R. A. DeCandido

Author:Entertainment, Blizzard & Keith R. A. DeCandido
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2006-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

WHEN TWO HOURS PASSED, AND THE PITCHER never came out of the alley, Fagin assumed that the plan didn’t work.

This really cracked him off. The Pitcher was both his most valuable enforcer and his most useful test bed for new drugs that came on the market. His metabolism was such that his response to a drug was about ten percent of how normal people would react. Back in the old days, Fagin had a source for some great designer drugs on Korhal IV. Sometimes, though, the stuff was too intense—you didn’t want drugs that killed on the first shot, because then you don’t get repeat business. So he’d use the Pitcher—if it made him sick, it’d kill anyone else, and so he knew which ones to put on the market.

(The day the confederals nuked Korhal IV was a bad day for Fagin. When Arcturus Mengsk started up the Sons of Korhal, Fagin had sent a rather generous contribution to Mengsk to further his cause, just because he was cracked off about the attack….)

Three hours after the Pitcher went into the alley, Nova came out. The expression on her face was much different from the one a day earlier. Where yesterday she looked starved and desperate, today she looked angry and determined.

Between that expression and the fact that she survived an encounter with the Pitcher—something no one had managed in years—Fagin knew he was about to have bigger problems.

Someone knocked at the door. “Fagin, you got a package.”

A protest that he’d left instructions not to be bothered died on his lips—the only exception to those instructions was if a package arrived. “Bring it,” he said as he touched the control that would lower the force field and open the door.

Jo-Jo came in holding a shipping box with the holographic label MEDICAL SUPPLIES, and a return address from the Confederate Army Supply Depot in Grange Village.

Fagin grinned. Morwood came through.

After Jo-Jo put the package down on Fagin’s bed, he left. Fagin grabbed the mailscan out of his desk drawer and ran it over the package; the mailscan’s display showed him an alphanumeric code, which he then entered into the keypad on the package. With a pneumatic hiss, it opened, revealing a mass of Pakstuf surrounding the item he had ordered from Morwood.

While reading over Morwood’s note, he grabbed his fone and called Markus.

“Chaneed, Fagin?”

“I need you to grab every habhead who’s short and needs a fix, and every little kid you can scrounge up, okay? I’m talkin’ pre-acnoid here—and nobody hooked, I don’t want no yous.” He thought about who was on his list—the one of people who were a filament away from having their heads blown off by Fagin’s P220. “And get Poppo, Jonesy, Two-Bit, and Mags down here, too, and tell them to bring all their guns. Get ’em all here in half an hour.”

“What do we need little kids for?” Markus asked.

Fagin frowned. Markus wasn’t usually one for asking stupid questions—or any other questions, it came down to it.

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