StarCraft

by Timothy Zahn

  Provided that someone could prove to his satisfaction that Zagara’s adostra were indeed the creatures that had attacked Halkman’s survey team. Whether Valerian could then prove that to Zagara’s satisfaction was an entirely different question.

  If not, it could make the logistics of getting off Gystt extremely problematic.

  But he had no choice. Artanis hadn’t said it in so many words, but Valerian had the strong suspicion that his presence on the surface might be the only thing that was keeping the hierarch from ordering a full incineration.

  Furthermore, if Artanis was right—if Zagara was indeed playing them with an eye toward using the psyolisks in a new war—then Valerian would not only stand back and not interfere, but might feel morally obligated to assist the protoss in their rain of destruction.

  But only if he was absolutely certain that annihilation was necessary.

  So he would stay, and talk, and listen. At least until Cruikshank’s team had examined the Point Two chamber and taken some samples. Maybe until Halkman’s team did the same at Point Three. Maybe even longer than that if necessary.

  And if Zagara refused to believe and Artanis refused to wait…he would cross that bridge when he arrived.

  —

  Cruikshank’s dropships were halfway to the surface when the word came that the protoss were under attack.

  “Where the hell did they all come from?” Cruikshank asked, glaring at the image from the dropship’s lower scope. The foliage on the rolling hills outside Point Two was pretty heavy, but it wasn’t that heavy. How had all those damn zerg suddenly appeared? “Were they all inside the mesa?”

  “Near as we can tell, the only ones that came out after the protoss knocked down the trees were a few of the new species Halkman’s team identified,” Horner said grimly. “Their so-called psyolisks. The rest apparently sneaked in from the trees around the protoss.”

  Cruikshank felt his lip twist. Sneak wasn’t a word he was accustomed to using with zerg. There were a few sneaky species, but most lower-level types just charged in like brainless bulldozers.

  Like they were doing right now, in fact, with the zerglings, roaches, and hydralisks doing their damnedest to overwhelm the small protoss force. “How bad is it?” he asked. “I’m losing details to the trees and acid-burn smoke.”

  “It’s bad,” Horner said. “Artanis is as much in the dark as we are, but it looks like a slaughter in progress. We started off picking up the electromagnetic signatures of ten Templar psi blades and ten Nerazim warp blades. Now we’re down to six and seven.”

  Cruikshank squeezed his hand into a fist. The battle had been under way for maybe three minutes, and the protoss had already lost four Templar and three Nerazim? Unbelievable. “What the hell is Zagara throwing at them?”

  “Zagara claims it’s not her,” Horner said. “She says it’s not the local broodmother, either.”

  “Right,” Cruikshank growled. “The local zerglings just happened to pick today to declare independence. And sentience.”

  “I don’t believe it, either,” Horner said. “But right now, the who doesn’t matter. What matters is that the protoss are in trouble, and you’re the only ones who can do anything to help.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Cruikshank promised darkly. So instead of kicking protoss butt, he’d now been tasked with pulling their butts out of the frying pan. Damn, and damn again. “We’ll get there as fast as we can, and do whatever we can.”

  “I know you will,” Horner said. “Good luck, Colonel. And watch yourselves. The protoss are important, but your ultimate responsibility is to the Dominion and its people.”

  “Understood, sir,” Cruikshank said. “I’ll contact you again when this is over.”

  He keyed off the comm and switched to short-range. “All right, troopers, you all heard the admiral. This is now a rescue mission. We hit the ground running; we pull out any protoss who are still alive, and we pan-fry every damn zerg in sight.”

  Four minutes later, the dropships slammed into the ground, their landing legs howling in protest at the impact. Cruikshank made sure he and his Warhound led the way from his dropship, with the three goliaths the first ones out of theirs.

  To find that they were too late.

  It was like a scene straight out of hell. The whole area was crawling with zerg—banelings, roaches, zerglings, hydralisks—their claws slicing at the handful of remaining high templar and dark templar, poison darts shredding flesh and clothing, acid blasts eating into grass and trees and filling the air with choking smoke. There were dead zerg everywhere, sprawled on top of one another or intermixed with dead protoss. Two robotic protoss sentries hovered over the carnage, their automated systems trying futilely to protect the warriors. Near the mesa, lying shattered on its side among the downed trees that had once blocked the cavern entrance, was a stalker.

  But just because the rescue mission had gone to hell didn’t mean the Dominion was just going to pack up and leave. “Attack at will!” Cruikshank shouted to his troops. “Find any pockets of resistance and reinforce them. I’m checking out that stalker—reapers, cover me. And watch the sky—we could have mutalisks show up anytime.”

  His Warhound strode toward the downed stalker, sweeping away zerglings that got too close and firing bursts from its rail guns at every hydralisk in range. A baneling scuttled toward him; another burst from his rail guns blew it to acid-spewing shreds.

  “Watch it, Colonel,” one of the reapers snapped. “You got acid on your left leg.”

  Cruikshank cursed under his breath as he glanced at his status display. The neutralizer spray had caught most of it in time, but the edges of the splash were still sizzling. Another shot of neutralizer took care of it. There was probably some residual corrosion going on in grooves and cracks where the spray couldn’t reach, which would eventually collapse the leg if it wasn’t dealt with.

  But there was no time for that. The leg would last the rest of the mission, and right now that was all Cruikshank cared about.

  “Mutalisks!” someone shouted. “Four-beta-high.”

  Cruikshank looked at the location. Two of the nasties were arrowing down from the sky, clearly intent on taking out one of the remaining protoss sentries. After glancing target locks on both of them, he sent a pair of Haywire missiles screaming into the air. A third mutalisk, swooping in at the edge of his vision, fell to a burst of Hellfire scatter missiles from one of the goliaths.

  Another pair of zerglings had emerged from the pack and were slicing at Cruikshank’s damaged leg. Blasting them with his rail guns, he kept going.

  From the stalker’s lack of motion, he had guessed that the dark templar who was melded into the machinery was as dead as the machinery itself. But as he reached it, the Nerazim’s eyes opened to slits and the head turned a little to look up at the Warhound’s cockpit. You came, a weak protoss voice said in Cruikshank’s head.

  “Yeah, we’re here,” Cruikshank said, wincing at the banality of the words. Yes, the Dominion forces had arrived. For all the damn good that was going to do most of the protoss. “Hang on—you’ve got a tree across one of your legs. I’ll get it off and take you back to our dropship.”

  There is no time, the dark templar said. You must destroy the chamber, or you and your terrans will die alongside us.

  “I can’t do that,” Cruikshank said, glancing at the status reports coming in on his tac display. Three Templar and four Nerazim still alive, and more zerg pouring into the area. The corrosion problem in his Warhound’s leg was getting worse, with the computer estimating he had ten more minutes before it became useless. A slaughter, all right, and it was far from over. “Sorry, but I have orders to take it intact.”

  You cannot, the dark templar said. Even now they are abandoning it.

  Cruikshank frowned at the cavern entrance, keying in the Warhound’s telescopics. There wasn’t much light in there, but there was enough to show a line of red-spotted psyolisks coming down the ramp, each pair manhandling a mil
ky-white pod between them.

  I did not believe the terran report that this new zerg could attack with psionic power, the dark templar continued, his voice starting to fade. But it is true. They draw other zerg to the battlefield and to the attack. They then focus their power on us, one by one, with a force that overwhelms even dark templar, opening us to destruction.

  Cruikshank hissed between his teeth. And if the psyolisks were able to get those pods out of there while he and his team were otherwise engaged, God only knew where they would turn up next.

  Emperor Valerian wanted the chamber taken intact. But even emperors didn’t always get what they wanted. “All right,” he said. “I’ll—what’s your name, soldier?”

  I am Sagaya.

  “All right, Sagaya,” Cruikshank said. “You stay here and keep alive. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He straightened up, wondering how many of the damn psyolisks were in there. Wondering, too, whether his rail guns and missile launchers would run out of ammo—and his leg run out of function—before he found out.

  There is no need to go inside, Sagaya said. Their destruction already awaits. I have sent in a disruptor. Any perceived attack upon it will cause its detonation.

  “Ah,” Cruikshank said. Nasty weapons, disruptors. But in this case, exactly what he needed. “I think I can accommodate it. Attention, all units. I’m about to trigger a protoss disruptor inside the mesa. Watch out for flying rock.”

  After locking onto a spot as far up the ramp as he could see, he fired off a Haywire. It blasted its way inside, nearly taking out a pair of psyolisks and their pod along the way. It reached the first switchback and blew, lighting up the entire inside. Cruikshank held his breath…

  The mesa didn’t exactly split apart, as Cruikshank had thought it might. But it was close. The disruptor’s blast blew a dozen massive holes in the top, throwing dirt and rock and vegetation high into the air and shaking the ground under the Warhound’s feet. An instant later a fireburst roared out of the cave opening, blasting every bush and tree in its path and knocking Cruikshank’s Warhound onto its back.

  For a long moment he just lay there, aching where he’d been thrown against his webbing, wincing as the wind and fire blasted and swirled outside his cockpit’s steelglass canopy. Slowly, the maelstrom faded away, and the swirling storm of leaves and dirt and branches subsided. Carefully, he got the Warhound’s arms under it and levered the mech back to its feet. There was a slight lurch as the outer plating of its damaged left leg cracked, but the main support structure held. Moving slowly, mindful of his balance amid the piles of debris, he turned and surveyed the battlefield.

  It was a mess. Everyone in sight—terran, protoss, and zerg—had been thrown flat onto the ground. Two of Cruikshank’s three goliaths were slowly getting back to their feet, both showing signs of serious damage. The third lay motionless, its legs torn apart, its Hellfire launcher crushed, one of its autocannons half melted from heat buildup. Cruikshank’s med readout on the pilot indicated he was alive, but just barely. Elsewhere on the field, some of the marines were also picking themselves up off the ground. None of the five reapers were visible, and only two of their med readouts indicated life.

  The zerg were slowly starting to move as well. But not to attack. For the most part, they were standing up, shaking their massive heads as if dazed and confused, and just looking around. Cruikshank kept his finger on the Warhound’s rail-gun trigger, but none of the creatures made any hostile move. They all simply stood still for a moment as if deciding what to do, then turned and wandered or staggered away.

  And as they cleared the field, Cruikshank saw three protoss slowly regain their feet.

  Three.

  He ran his displays through another 360, just to be sure. Then, huffing out a sigh, he keyed his long-range comm. “This is Cruikshank,” he said. “Victory achieved. Enemy is yielding the field. Rescue mission…” He swallowed hard. “Not so much.”

  —

  Zagara lashed her arms through the air in front of her as if trying to crush someone. I do not understand.

  “Twelve terrans dead,” Valerian bit out, for once not even trying to fake a diplomatic bearing. “Nineteen protoss dead. Do you still claim these psyolisks aren’t hostile?”

  These cannot be the adostra, Zagara insisted. They are completely and inherently peaceful.

  “Zergling-sized creatures with semi-hydralisk form, light brown with red highlights, triple dorsal patterns of bright-red spots?”

  Adostra are not of that form.

  “Are you sure?” Valerian pressed. “Have you looked into the pods recently?”

  Zagara’s claws were still working. No one has looked inside, she said. Not since they were encased in the nutrients. They are still maturing.

  “Then you really don’t know what they might have become?”

  Will not listen further, Abathur said suddenly. Terran organism lies for destruction of Swarm. Will not listen further. After turning his back, he strode toward the chamber entrance.

  Valerian looked at Zagara, expecting her to order him back. Apparently not. Abathur passed the ravagers, still waiting in ominous silence, and disappeared elsewhere in the structure.

  Maybe Zagara had decided he had nothing further to add to the conversation. Maybe she’d decided that the entire conversation was coming to a close.

  Maybe she was right.

  “I’m going to leave now,” Valerian said, standing up. “I trust you won’t try to stop me.”

  For a long second he thought Zagara was going to do exactly that. Her head drew back, her eyes glittering at him. Then some of the tension seemed to flow out of her. What would such action accomplish? she pointed out. I seek to avoid war. Unless I can persuade you to the truth, that effort will come to nothing.

  “You can’t persuade me, Overqueen, just as I can’t persuade you,” Valerian said. “Only the truth itself can do that. I will continue to seek out that truth as long as I can. But in the end…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  Then go, Zagara said. Seek the truth.

  “I will,” Valerian said, some of his resolve slipping. She was so unlike any zerg he’d ever met. That alone had been worth investigating. That alone gave him pause.

  And she seemed so sincere.

  But he’d given her a fair chance. More of a chance than Artanis had given her. Certainly more than Valerian’s father, Arcturus, would have. Emperor Arcturus would have declared war and begun his assault hours ago. No, whatever happened from this point on, Valerian’s conscience was clear.

  And you will find it, Zagara promised. I hope that you will find it while there is still time.

  —

  Somewhat to Valerian’s surprise, no attack came as his dropship lifted through the cone and headed away from the surface. He’d barely reached the thousand-meter mark when a full squadron of Wraiths swooped in and escorted him the rest of the way to the Hyperion.

  He arrived on the bridge to find Matt on the comm with Artanis. “I understand your position, Hierarch Artanis,” the admiral was saying as Valerian entered. He caught Valerian’s eye and waved him over. “I’ll relay your comments and suggestions to Emperor Valerian as soon as he arrives.”

  “Very well, Admiral Matthew Horner,” Artanis’s voice came from the speaker. “Be certain he also understands that my patience is not unlimited.”

  “I will, Hierarch,” Matt promised. “Admiral Horner out.”

  He keyed off the comm. “Emperor Valerian,” he said, turning to Valerian. “I’m glad to see you alive and unharmed.”

  “I’m a bit surprised by it myself.” Valerian gestured toward the comm. “What news from the protoss?”

  “They’ve got their front toes right on the line and are leaning over it,” Matt said darkly. “Artanis is about half a damn away from ordering a full-bore assault on Gystt.”

  Valerian curled his hand into a fist. “With our people still down there.”

  “Well, the survey team, anyway,” Matt sa
id. “Cruikshank’s force was able to make some running repairs on their dropships before our replacements arrived. They’re on their way up.” His lip twisted. “What’s left of them, anyway.”

  “Yes,” Valerian murmured. “At least we made out better than the protoss.”

  “Only because we weren’t on the ground as long,” Matt said bluntly. “You saw Cruikshank’s report?”

  “I got the basics.”

  “Then you saw his take on the psyolisks’ strategy.”

  Valerian nodded. “Gang up on the Templar and the Nerazim one at a time, break their combat concentration, then slice and dice.”

  “Or let the rest of the zerg do it for them,” Matt said. “And that doesn’t even count the effect the psionic attacks had on our people. Relatively minimal, at least compared with the effect on protoss. But still a potentially serious game-changer.”

  “It is indeed,” Valerian agreed. “Zagara still claims that neither she nor the local broodmother was in charge of that attack.”

  “She claimed that about the survey team’s little fracas, too,” Matt reminded him. “Either she’s lying or…You suppose the psyolisks themselves could be orchestrating the attacks?”

  “That’s about the only other explanation,” Valerian said. “Problem is, it’s pretty much impossible to prove one way or another. Not without a tap into basic zerg-to-zerg communications.”

  “Which neither we nor the protoss have. So what’s our next move?”

  “Same as before,” Valerian said. “We get the survey team to Focal Point Three and hope they can finally get us some real samples.”

  “Ah.” Matt paused. “You realize that, whatever game is being played, and whoever’s playing it, Point Three is the obvious choice for our next move. If they want Halkman’s team out of the way, it’ll take very little effort.”

  “Yes, and I’ve been thinking about that,” Valerian said. “I know we’ve got some psi disruptors aboard—you gave those psi block variants to Halkman and Cray. Do we by any chance have any psi emitters?”

  Matt blinked. “I would think that drawing zerg to us would be an extraordinarily bad idea right now.”