STARCRAFT™: LIBERTY’S CRUSADE

by Jeff Grubb

  There was a revolt on the planet Korhal IV. The inhabitants didn’t care much for the graft and corruption that was part and parcel of the Confederacy. They tried to rebel. At first the Confederacy tried a soft approach: they took out the rebellion’s leaders with assassins, ghost-troopers with personal cloaking devices. Unsurprisingly, this approach just made the people of Korhal angrier and more rebellious. So the Confederacy took a harder line.

  We nuked Korhal IV from orbit.

  Apocalypse-class missiles. About a thousand of them. Some green-tagged idiot on Tarsonis pressed a button, and 35 million people became nothing more than vapor and their homes nothing more than a memory.

  Naturally, there were official justifications thereafter about the evil, menacing nature of Korhal, and how they were planning to do it to us if they got even the slightest chance. It was unfortunate that the proof of this accusation was located on a planet covered by blackened glass.

  I think that’s what really scared the military about the vaporization of Chau Sara: that there was something else out there that was just as crazy as we were.

  And they were better at it than we were.

  —THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

  MIKE TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THE TIME THE SHIP was in subwarp to pore through the open computer archives on the Sara system. It was a fairly typical Fringe system, the ragged leading edge of the Confederacy’s ever-increasing sphere of power.

  The system had been found by a prospector before the Guild Wars, glommed onto by the Confederacy when it eclipsed that budding rival in space, and was (according to the ship’s archives) the home of a growing pair of colony worlds. The only thing that made the Sara system different from about a dozen other similar worlds was that there were two worlds in its habitable band instead of just one.

  Chau Sara was the smaller and more outlying of the worlds, and had the larger colony. It had been settled, in Confederate tradition, as a penal colony, and a lot of its (now former) inhabitants had still been serving hard time. Mar Sara had a more eclectic mix of former prospectors and soldiers, along with a couple of religious types that didn’t agree with the Tarsonian limits of tolerance for other faiths. Both planets had rich potential for mineral exploitation, but of course the Confederacy had dibs on those resources. The locals would have to either work under Confederate contracts or flee to new Fringe Worlds.

  Mike checked the current UNN reports. There was a small bit about a disruption of signals from the Sara system, but most of the broadcast was given over to the latest Sons of Korhal outrage (poison gas in a public plaza on Haji), and a multitrain monorail pileup on Moira.

  Mike composed a brief blurb, summarizing his discussion with Colonel Duke and noting that he was under full military restrictions in future reporting. That meant that his report would be checked over before it left the ship and then again before it was broadcast. Handy Anderson would be simultaneously griping about military censorship and dancing around his office in joy for the scoop.

  If I’m lucky, thought Mike, he’ll dance too close to that damned window of his.

  Mike prepared a second report, this one scrambled under cipher software and burned onto a minidisk. This one wasn’t going anywhere, but if something happened to them, and their bodies were found, someone would know what was going on. It was a grim insurance policy.

  He had just finished the second report when a large shadow blocked the light.

  Mike looked up into the face of Lieutenant Swallow, now a foot taller and several hundred pounds heavier. She was decked out in a combat suit, her natural strength boosted by servos and mechanisms. An empty belt clip at her side would soon be filled with an 8-millimeter C-14 gauss rifle, an Impaler, for when she went into action.

  Her visor was open, and she beamed an excited smile at him. She looked like a girl expecting her first prom dance.

  “Sir? We’ll be coming out of subwarp soon. The colonel wants you on the bridge, at the soonest possible moment.” Then she was gone..

  Meaning right damned now, thought Mike, and followed Swallow out of his quarters.

  The passageways were no wider now, but with the bulky suits now in preponderance they had become one-way, with movement guided by huge arrows on the floor. At several crossings Swallow held up to let other crewmen pass in front of them, and Mike had the sudden feeling of being the only kindergartner in a sixth-grade class.

  “I’ve got to get me one of those suits,” he commented.

  “I was unaware you were trained in the CMC powered combat suit, sir,” said Swallow.

  “I’ve read the manuals.”

  “That knowledge would be barely sufficient for your own protection in a crisis situation, sir. However, should something happen, it is my personal responsibility to make sure you get to safety.”

  “I’m filled with confidence.” Mike smiled at Swallow’s back, just in case she had a camera trained on him.

  The ship gave a transdimensional shudder, and the engines shifted back from subwarp. They were in Sara’s space.

  The bridge was now bathed in red light, accented by the green monitors that lined the lower deck. Colonel Duke was decked out in his own battle armor. He looked like a gorilla at the court of King Arthur. A gorilla with a pointy head, wearing plate mail. He was surrounded by a small cluster of viewscreens, each with a different talking head feeding data to him.

  “Mr. Liberty, reporting as requested, sir,” said Swallow, managing another sharp salute, even in the heavy armor.

  “Colonel,” said Mike.

  Duke did not look away from the main screen. He said simply, “We’re nearing Chau Sara.”

  At first Mike thought the main screen was malfunctioning. They were approaching Chau Sara from the night side. The large disk of the outer Saran world was a messy, rainbow smear of light, like that found on oily water.

  Then Mike realized that this was the surface of Chau Sara he was looking at. It glowed with rippling bands of colors, moored at a handful of locations y bright spikes of orange.

  “What . . .” Mike blinked. “What did this?”

  “First contact, Liberty,” said the colonel. “First contact of the most extreme kind. How are the scans?”

  One of the technicians reported, “I get no life readings. Most of the surface area has been liquefied and sterilized. This zone looks to be between twenty and fifty feet deep.”

  “The settlements?” Mike asked..

  The technician continued, “The orange spikes appear to be magma breaches through the planetary mantle. They are located at the locations of the known settlements.” A pause. “Plus at least a dozen other locations.”

  Mike looked at the swirling, deadly rainbow on the screen. The sun was cresting the horizon ahead of them, and the world looked no better in the sunlight. Only a few dark clouds, thin as crow feathers, dragged across the sunlight side.

  “In addition, eighty percent of the atmosphere has been blown off in the attack,” continued the technician.

  “Any orbital presence?” asked Duke, an armorplated monolith in their midst.

  “Working,” said the tech. Finally came the response, “Negative. Nothing of ours. Nothing of unknown origin either. There may be some fragments on a larger scan.”

  “Widen the scan,” said Duke. “I want to know if there’s anything out here. Ours or theirs.”

  “Working . . . Definite fragments. Likely ours. Would need a salvage team to confirm.”

  “Why did they do this?” Mike asked, but no one answered him. Techs in lighter-weight combat suits tapped displays with gauntleted hands, and the numerous heads on the screens all talked at once to Colonel Duke.

  Finally Mike came up with a question he thought they could answer. “What did this? Nukes?”

  The word seemed to reak Duke from his steady stream of information. He looked at the reporter. “Atomic delivery systems leave blackened glass and burning forests. Even Korhal had some surviving pockets of clear terrain, for a while at least. Chau Sara has been bu
rned down to the liquid core in places. This is much more deadly than even Apocalypse bombs.”

  “This”—Duke pointed at the screen—“is the work of an alien race, the Protoss. From what I’m being told, they warped in from nowhere, closer to the planet than we would ever attempt. Huge ships, and a lot of them. Caught a few transports and scavenger ships and blew them out of the sky. Then they unleashed whatever-it-was on the planet and sterilized it like a three-minute egg. Then they left again. Mar Sara’s on the other side of the sun right now, and they’re in a panic that they might be next.”

  “Protoss.” Mike shook his head slightly, digesting the data. Something was wrong there. He looked at the tech’s display, showing the deep radar holes punching down to the planet’s magma.

  “You have enough for your report, Mr. Liberty,” Duke said. “We will remain on station in the event of other hostiles for the foreseeable future. You may mention in any report you file that we will be joined by the Jackson V and the Huey Long within days.”

  The tech reached for his ear, then said, “Sir, we have anomalous readings.”

  “Location?” snapped the colonel, turning away from Liberty.

  “Zed-Two, Quadrant Five, one AU out. Numerous anomalies.”

  “Bearing?”

  “Working.” A pause, and then a defeated shrug crept into the tech’s words. “Heading for Mar Sara, sir.”

  Duke nodded. “Prepare to intercept anomalous readings. Launch fighters when in range.”

  Mike spoke before he thought, “Are you crazy?”

  Duke turned back to the reporter. “That was a rhetorical question, I hope, son.”

  “We’re one ship.”

  “We’re the only ship between them and Mar Sara. We will intercept.”

  Mike almost said, “Easy for you, you’re in a hard-shelled battlesuit,” but caught himself. Whatever could go through a planetary crust wouldn’t be stopped by a few layers of combat armor.

  Instead Mike took a deep breath and just gripped the railing, as if he were hoping that this might ease the eventual blow.

  “Approaching visual,” said the tech. “Putting on screen.”

  The main screen flickered to reveal a scattering of fireflies against the night sky. They looked almost pretty against the darkness. Then Mike realized that there were hundreds of them, and that these were only the main ships. Smaller gnats danced around them.

  “Are we within launching range for the Wraiths?” the colonel asked.

  “Mark at two minutes,” replied the tech.

  “Launch as soon as possible.”

  Mike took a deep breath and wished that he had joined in the combat suit drills after all.

  Even at long range, the Protoss ships had form and definition. The largest were huge cylindrical creations, similar in appearance to luminous zeppelins. They were surrounded by hungry moths, and Mike realized these had to be their fighters, their equivalents of the A-17 Wraiths that were now in the hangars, just waiting for them to close to within striking range. Other golden ships danced between the larger carriers, glimmering like small stars.

  Then, as Mike watched, one of the great carriers seemed to dissolve. There was a flash of light, a soft glowing, and then it was gone. Another moment, and another flash, and another disappearance.

  “Sir,” said the technician. “Anomalous reading disappearing.”

  “Cloaking technology?” asked the colonel.

  Despite himself, Mike said, “At this scale?”

  “Working.” A huge pause, as deep as a canyon. “Negative. It appears that they are surrounding themselves with some form of subwarp field. They are retreating.”

  As Mike watched, more of the ships began to flash and vanish. The great carriers and their brood of smaller ships, the lesser golden vessels, all vanished like fey spirits with the coming of dawn.

  Fey spirits that can burn a planet down to its molten core, Mike reminded himself.

  The colonel allowed himself a smile. “Good. They’re afraid of us. Have all stations stand down, but remain alert for a trick.”

  Mike shook his head. “This makes no sense. They have the power to toast a planet. Why are they afraid of us?”

  “Obvious,” said the colonel. “They’re spent. They don’t have enough force to engage us.”

  “We’re only one ship.” Mike shook his head angrily. “There were dozens out there.”

  “They fear possible reinforcements.”

  “No, no. Something’s going on here. It doesn’t make human sense.”

  “We’re not dealing with humans here,” said Duke, scowling. “Look at their firepower.”

  “Exactly. These Protoss have superior numbers and firepower, and we’re facing them down? Why they are here?”

  “Mr. Liberty, that will be enough questions for the day.” The scowl deepened, but Mike ignored the warning.

  “No, something’s not jake in all this. Look at the damage reports.” Mike pointed at one of the tech’s monitors. “They cooked an entire planet, but some places deeper than others. Every major human city, yes, but look.” Mike pointed at the wall of data. “There are strike zones on the other side of the planet, far away from any recorded human settlement. I know. I was just checking the archives.”

  “I said that will be enough, Mister. We have more to worry about with the Protoss than just how effective they are in choosing their targets.”

  Mike’s face lit up as a connection was made deep in his brain. “And where did we get the name ‘Protoss,’ Colonel? Is that ours, or theirs?”

  “Mister Liberty!” Color was creeping up the sides of Duke’s face.

  “And if it’s their name for themselves, how come we know it? Didn’t we have to know it in advance? Or did they send a warning before they attacked?” The reporter was raising his voice now, the way he would for a dissembling candidate in a precinct by-election.

  “Lieutenant Swallow!” Duke bit off the command.

  “Yes, sir?” Another perfect salute.

  “Escort Mr. Liberty off the bridge! Now!”

  Mike gripped the railing firmly with both hands. A ligatured arm wrapped in metal snaked around his waist. Mike was shouting now, “Dammit, Duke, you know more than you’re telling. This stinks to high heaven!”

  “I said now, Lieutenant!” Duke snarled.

  “This way, sir,” said Swallow, breaking Mike’s hold and pulling the reporter off his feet. With her prize, she retreated for the lift.

  Still shouting questions, Michael Liberty left the bridge. The last thing he heard before the doors slid shut was Colonel Duke ordering the opening of a comm line with the colonial magistrate of Mar Sara.

  CHAPTER 4

  DOWN ON MAR SARA

  There’s a period in any war between the first blow and the second. It’s a quiet moment, an almost tranquil time, when the realization of what has happened is just sinking in and everyone feels they know what happens next. Some prepare to flee. Some prepare to hit back. But no one moves. Not yet.

  It’s a perfect moment, the time when the ball is at the highest point of the throw. The action has been taken, and for one frozen moment everything is moving, but everything is at rest.

  Then there are those jackasses who can’t leave such things alone. And the ball starts downward again, the second blow is thrown, and we plunge into the maelstrom.

  —THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

  MICHAEL LIBERTY WAS NOT ALLOWED OUT OF his quarters for the remainder of the action over Mar Sara. Lieutenant Swallow or one of her neurally resocialized comrades stood guard outside his quarters for the next two days. After that it was an escort to the dropship and a shuttle to beautiful Mar Sara itself.

  Now, a day after that, he was in the press pool, fleecing the local reporters for most of their life savings while waiting for something that resembled a straight answer from the powers that be.

  It was not forthcoming. The official debriefings were preshaped pellets of non-news that stressed the suddenness o
f the attack on Chau Sara, hailed Duke and the Norad II crew as heroes for standing up to the enemy, and claimed that only the ever-watchful vigilance of the Confederacy could protect Mar Sara. The Protoss (still no idea where the name came from) were portrayed as cowards who folded at the first sign of a real fight. The delicate if impressive nature of their lightning-charged ships confirmed that notion: they fled because they were afraid to be hit.

  That was the story, anyway, and the marines were sticking with it. In fact, if anyone in the press pool wandered too far from the official version, their reports suddenly started getting lost in transmission. That kept most of the locals in line. They were all issued passes with bar codes that were supposed to be presented upon demand. And, Mike knew, to keep tabs on their whereabouts.

  All of the other newshounds knew Liberty’s story from aboard the Norad II, but no one had yet tried to use any of the information in their own reports.

  In the outside world, a planetary lockdown was in force. Officially a civilian protection measure (to quote the official press release), it was effectively a military overthrow of the local government. The locals were being herded into concentration points for supposedly easier evacuation. No mention was made of where the evacuating ships would come from, or even if there was a timetable for abandoning the planet. In the meantime, there were marine patrols on every corner, and those citizens who remained in the city were looking very, very nervous.

  In the absence of anything reportable, the newshounds hung out at the large café in front of the Grand Hotel, played cards, waited for the next official news-like release, and speculated madly. Mike, bedecked in his duster, lounged with them, looking more like a native than any of the others.

  “Man, I don’t think there are any aliens at all,” said Rourke between hands of poker. Rourke was a big redhead with a craggy scar across his forehead. “I think the Sons of Korhal finally found enough tech to avenge the nuking of their homeworld.”

  “Bite your tongue,” said Maggs, a crusty old bird from one of the local dailies. “Even joking about the Korholes is enough to get you shot.”