Starcraft II: Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  Sarah lifted her head. Her eyes glittered in the faint light as she searched his. She was more than likely reading his mind. He didn’t care. He wanted her to. Maybe then she would see herself as he saw her. He smiled gently, lifting a hand to stroke that red silk and brought a tendril to his lips.

  “I know that’s what you see,” she said. “And . . . don’t think I discount it, but—you’re not here.” She tapped her head. “I am. This darkness . . . Jim, I need you to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  She swallowed. He sensed that she had never been more vulnerable to anyone than she was in this moment, and the thought made his heart suddenly feel very, very full. “Promise me that if that darkness ever consumes me—you’ll stop it. No matter what.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again, and continued stroking her soft pale flesh. He didn’t know what to say, what to do.

  “Promise me!” Her voice was sharp, not with anger but with fear.

  She wouldn’t become consumed with darkness. Not after all she’d been through already. She had a tremendous power, and unscrupulous people had made her do terrible things. But Sarah Kerrigan was her own woman now. She would never be anyone’s toy. And so, she would never fall to that darkness.

  It was with confidence and love both that he looked her in the eyes and took her chin in his hand. “If it will make you rest easier in my arms, darlin’, then yes. I promise.”

  2504

  I promise.

  Sarah’s eyelids fluttered open. While this room that passed for a sick bay was never dark, with all the little lights of the panels twinkling and soft illumination at night, it was still dim enough so that she knew it was the small hours of the morning.

  She thought back to her conversation with Jim earlier. He couldn’t know what she had been thinking. He couldn’t know that every time he urged her to talk about “what happened,” she relived it: the “death” that was nothing so merciful, the torment of her body twisting into its new shape, the sights and sounds of so many people dying in agony, becoming either food or raw genetic material for the zerg. Her zerg.

  Her zerg that had descended upon a terrified but determined woman, trying to lift her screaming daughter to safety.

  “Mama! Mama!” The girl didn’t want to go, didn’t want to be handed off to the strong arms of a stranger who was trying to save her life. She struggled.

  In vain, all of it in vain. Mother and daughter and kind stranger would all be dead within seconds—

  Jim wanted to think it was the Queen of Blades, that being who was neither Sarah Kerrigan nor zerg proper, but a sick mind’s combination of both, who had done this. Maybe he was right.

  Sarah didn’t think so.

  She rolled over, slowly, and was both surprised and unsurprised to see a shape slumped over in the chair next to her. His head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore issuing forth. She closed her eyes.

  I promise.

  And yet, when the darkness was given full, hideous rein, he had not stopped it—no matter what.

  Had he broken that promise? Or simply seen that, despite what she had thought and become and done, the darkness hadn’t entirely consumed her?

  Anger suddenly knifed through her, hot and keen. At who or what, she didn’t know. There was a loud crash from somewhere, and her eyes snapped open as she heard a muffled curse from one of the night-shift medical personnel.

  “What happened?” came a startled voice.

  “Damned if I know,” said another.

  Sarah knew.

  She’d done it. She’d felt her anger randomly select something in the room—even she didn’t know what—and focus upon it until it . . . crashed? Exploded?

  Jim awoke instantly, alert and ready, hand going to the pistol at his side.

  “You all right?”

  Loaded question, Sarah thought, but nodded. “Something broke.” She didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t ready to think about the repercussions.

  Jim looked over, saw that the damage was already being cleaned up, and nodded to himself. He turned back toward her.

  “I know you asked me to go, but . . . I’d like to stay here. I won’t bother you if you want to go back to sleep.”

  “It’s all right,” Sarah said. The telekinetic burst had alleviated some of the pressure. “I . . . was thinking about that night. What happened. What I said.”

  “Yeah,” Jim said softly. “Me too.” He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “You know, Arcturus didn’t like the idea of you and me.”

  “Of course not,” said Sarah, venom in her voice. “If we turned to each other, we wouldn’t be dependent on him. He couldn’t manipulate us anymore. He was afraid we’d be bad influences on each other.”

  “If by ‘bad’ you mean ‘good,’ as in thinking for ourselves—yep. Almost said as much to me after one of his little spies saw you leaving my quarters.”

  Sarah went very still, listening as if with her whole body. “What did he say?”

  “Typical Mengsk bullshit,” Jim said, with the bluntness and honesty she found so appealing. “He was trying to help me, he said. Warn me, so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Jim paused, obviously waiting for her to comment sarcastically, but she stayed silent. After a moment that almost became awkward, he continued. “Said that you weren’t the sort of woman a guy like me should fall for. That you weren’t some innocent little girl who needed rescuing but—” He stopped abruptly. Sarah didn’t need to be a telepath to know what had happened. He had still been befuddled from sleep, and hadn’t really thought through what he was saying.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “It ain’t important. Just, you know, like I said, typical stuff.”

  “Jim. What did he say?”

  He sighed. “Said you were a weapon. A monster. Dangerous.”

  “ . . . I see.”

  “I . . . think that was when I first started to understand that I couldn’t trust the bastard.”

  “He was right.”

  “You know, yeah, in a way. Not gonna argue that. You were trained to be a dangerous weapon, Sarah, and that’s how he used you. And when you started to think for yourself and challenge his orders and start to open your eyes to just how bad he might be, you were a weapon that suddenly didn’t shoot where he pointed it. You were a weapon that could turn back on him. That’s why he tried to get rid of you. And that’s when the monster was made.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “But what one Mengsk made, another has given me the power to unmake. You’re Sarah again, darlin’, and I ain’t gonna leave you again. Ever.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jim, Matt, and Valerian sat in silence in the system runner as it swiftly bore them from the chaotic clutter of junk that was Deadman’s Port to the barren, rocky dead space that was Paradise. “From one hellhole to another,” Matt murmured at last as Jim looked about for a safe place to set down outside the town.

  “Ah, but you must admit, there’s such variety to the hellholes,” said Valerian behind the two Raiders.

  “True,” said Jim. “This is a bit open for my taste. Why did Mira pick this spot, Matt?”

  Matt gave him a quick annoyed glance. “You think I know? I don’t understand anything that woman does or how she thinks.”

  “Well, it seems what she does and how she thinks have gotten her rather far here,” Valerian said.

  Jim’s eyes narrowed as he sought out a place under a rock hanging not too far from the shabby-looking buildings that composed the town. “I don’t know,” he said. “Seems like a very odd place. But if Mira was gonna sell us out, she’s had more than enough time to do so.”

  He guided the ship in for a landing and set it down gently. They all hopped out, their feet sinking a centimeter deep in soft, red dust. The sensation and the red hue reminded Jim of Char, and he felt a twinge. That was over. Sarah had been rescued, and Narud was, Valerian assured him, going to help her get well. He needed to focus on that, not the past, not sh
ooting a friend who had once taken the fall for him, not any of that.

  He felt Matt’s eyes on him, but shook his head quickly: I’m good. Matt nodded.

  “There’s a bar in the town,” Matt said.

  “Vague that up for me, Matt,” Jim said. “I’m sure there’re more bars in this place than you can shake a stick at.”

  “This one’s the first one we’ll come to. Used to be a drug den, but Mira cleaned the place out. Still isn’t going to serve port, I bet.”

  “I didn’t come here to drink,” Valerian said, not rising to the bait. Jim hadn’t had time to ask Matt how their “expedition” into Deadman’s Port proper had gone, but sensed that some of Matt’s resentment toward the emperor’s get had subsided. That was good. He didn’t much care for the pretty boy either, but they all had a common goal right now, and as long as nobody whose first name started with Valerian and last name ended with Mengsk blew their cover, they should be all right.

  The air was hot, with only a slight breeze, and Jim was glad of it; he really didn’t want that fine dust scouring him when he was clad just in trousers, a shirt, boots, and a jacket. He had no fewer than three pistols on him, two in plain sight, and Matt and Valerian were similarly equipped. They strode without talking toward the outskirts of town.

  Makeshift shelters were ringed nearly a dozen thick around the town of Paradise, along with shanties that were clearly older. The wind shifted, and Jim nearly gagged at the smell of stale urine, feces, and unwashed bodies. He saw whole families huddled together, eyeing them with suspicion, fear, or loathing as they approached.

  “Whole lotta people got here suddenly, it looks like,” Jim said quietly.

  Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Valerian beat him to it. “Refugees,” he said. “Apparently Mira is doing what she can to help.”

  “Ain’t much,” Jim said. It was in no way a criticism but merely a comment. There were simply so many.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Mira said some of her people would be here in the crowds to keep an eye on us, but we probably wouldn’t know who they are. She warned that some people here are simply angry and frustrated and looking for a target, so we should make sure our weapons are clearly visible.”

  Jim chuckled slightly. He had already done what Matt had asked before the Hyperion captain had spoken. Valerian, however, hastened to comply.

  Jim felt eyes boring into him, some secretly, some openly. He coldly met the more brazen gazes and ignored the others. Valerian, fortunately, seemed to be affecting a walk that fit right in with Jim’s and Matt’s confident strides.

  The buildings were similar to some of those that Jim had grown up with: prefab housing, but of a much lower quality than those on Shiloh. Many had already fallen apart and had been shored up with hunks of the native stone. There was an air of watchfulness and despair that hung thickly about the place.

  “That building, second from the left,” Matt said quietly, and they veered toward a dilapidated structure. There was no sign announcing the nature of the business conducted within, and Jim felt himself tense as he entered, pushing open the old, battered door.

  A sweet, sickly smell lingered, announcing to those who knew the scent the previous nature of the place. Still, it was clear that recently, at least, the business had pedaled no vices other than the consumption of alcohol. There were a few tables and chairs scattered here and there. Patrons hunched over the tables, nursing their drinks. Matt walked up to the bar. The bartender, who had greasy muttonchop whiskers and a bald, tattooed head, eyed them for a moment.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked in a deep, almost challenging voice.

  “Scotty Bolger’s Old No. 8,” Jim said.

  “Same,” said Valerian.

  “Beer. Make it two; I’m thirsty,” said Horner.

  Exactly as they were supposed to.

  The barkeep eyed Horner suspiciously, but the code of beverages, requested in precisely that order, wasn’t really meant as an order or for his ears. Someone else was listening. They didn’t turn around to see who it was who likely slipped off his or her chair.

  The two glasses and two bottles were plopped unceremoniously on the bar. The whiskey slopped a bit, and the bartender made no effort to wipe it up. Certainly ain’t Cooper, Jim thought as he picked up his glass. Even in the dim light, he could see thumbprints on it. He shrugged and knocked it back; the alcohol would kill anything unsanitary, and the hot trail down his throat was welcome. He ordered a second shot, then a third.

  After a moment, they turned around and went to a vacant booth, of which there were many. “So far, so good,” said Jim.

  “Agreed,” said Matt. “And by the way—Valerian, do a few of those fellows in the corner look familiar?”

  Valerian made a slight face as if a twinge of pain had struck him and massaged his neck, turning slightly with the gesture. He turned back to the table.

  “Crane, if I’m not mistaken. I see that Mira has indeed put some protectors in place.”

  Jim had just reached for one of Matt’s beers—Horner was only pretending to drink one anyway—when a figure slid into the booth beside Valerian. A hood concealed his features at first, but then he lifted his head and Jim could catch a glimpse of snow-white mustache and sideburns.

  “Hello again, Doctor,” Jim drawled to Emil Narud.

  “I don’t mind telling you, the sooner we get out of here, the better,” the doctor said.

  “Agreed, but we can’t leave at once. Too noticeable,” said Horner.

  “Then, let me use the time to brief you as much as I can before we depart,” Narud said. They all kept their voices low to avoid any listening ears. He turned to Jim. “I know you won’t like this, but it’s necessary that I run some tests on . . . the subject. She still has zerg mutagen in her genes, as is evidenced by the incomplete transformation of which Valerian here has told me. We’ll need to determine if she is human enough to be trusted, or if we will be forced to contain her, for her own safety and that of—”

  “No.”

  Narud looked at Jim, nonplussed. “Surely you must understand—”

  “You must understand me, and what I am saying is, you ain’t gonna run no tests on her to determine if you’ll treat her like a person or an animal. And don’t cop a superior attitude with me. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how we saved your ass on Tyrador VIII.”

  Narud looked uncomfortable. “Er, no, of course not.” If it had not been for the Raiders, the Queen of Blades might have obtained key information regarding the artifact that eventually returned her to her human form. And might have destroyed the scientists on the planet as a happy little side effect.

  Valerian said quietly, “With the damage to our ships and the injuries to our crews, we’re dangerously low on medical supplies already. Mira has been able to help us with some repairs, but anything more than the barest minimum would give the game away. We’ve got to get to a secret Moebius base for cover and get her the care she needs, if nothing else.”

  “They’re right,” said Matt. Jim looked at him angrily. Matt merely gave a shrug. “I can show you the list of our supplies and the holes in the ships if you want, sir. I don’t like this any more than you do, but we can’t stay here. Mira’s done enough, and I don’t want any harm to come to her because she helped us out.”

  Jim stared at his bottle, then plucked a cigarette from the pack he kept rolled up in his sleeve, struck a match, and lit it. He took a drag as he thought about Sarah lying on the bed in sick bay, all her fire dampened, her unwillingness to eat, the frightening frailty of a woman once so swift and lithe.

  He didn’t want Mira to be at risk either. Jim let the smoke trickle out his nostrils, his eyes narrowing speculatively as he regarded Narud.

  “You don’t do a damn thing to her—not even look at her—unless I’m there,” Jim said. He spoke quietly but with an urgency that conveyed how deathly serious he was. “And if she isn’t capable of refusing treatment, mine is the final word. You don’t agree to
that, we’ll find some other way to get her help. Got it?”

  Narud opened his mouth to reply.

  * * *

  Sarah Kerrigan’s eyes flew open. Something was wrong. Jim—Jim was in danger. Or was it a dream? With the drugs and the nightmares and the holes she was finding in her memory, Sarah wasn’t sure what was real anymore. She struggled for alertness through a drug-induced haze, opening her mouth and croaking, “Doctor . . . ”

  Yeats was by her side at once. “What is it, Sarah?”

  “Jim . . . he’s not here—he’s not on the H-Hyperion, is he?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, he isn’t. He’s with Captain Horner and Mr. V.”

  A glass half-filled with water went sailing across the room seemingly of its own volition. Sarah struggled to rise, throwing the covers off and placing her bare feet on the wooden floor.

  “He’s in danger—call him back, call him back now! They want to capture him!”

  * * *

  Swann didn’t like being in command. He liked working with tools, getting his hands—both real and mechanical—dirty. He liked fixing things and working with a handful of people who thought exactly the way he did. Standing around on the bridge of the Hyperion, while they were safely ensconced beneath a pile of garbage no less, made him unhappy. Why did both Raynor and Horner need to go to see this Narud fellow anyway? Couldn’t one go while the other commanded the Hyperion, so that Swann would not have to be up here and—

  “Sir,” said Marcus, “I—I think we’re under attack!”

  There had been no klaxons going off, no alerts, and Swann narrowed his eyes. “You ‘think’?” he echoed gruffly. “What makes you think this when nothing else seems to report it?”

  “Because someone’s firing on the debris!”

  Even then, it was so preposterous that Swann merely furrowed his bushy eyebrows farther.

  “Sir—the debris that’s—”

  “—covering us,” Swann finished. “Hell’s bells. We’ve been found out. Get the Bucephalus’s captain, now!”