“Horner to fleet. Prepare to jump on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!”
The Bucephalus and a single other vessel of the “fleet” were all that accompanied the Hyperion as it fled to its next brief respite.
Anger burned, cold and seething, in Valerian’s gut. He punched a button. “I’m sure you saw that, Raynor.”
“I did, and I’m right sorry about it,” came Raynor’s voice. It was laced with genuine sympathy.
“We can’t afford to lose any more ships or people.”
“I agree, but I know that Swann and his team are working as fast as they possibly can. Judging by the last time, we’ve got about fifteen minutes or less before your dad finds us again, assuming that Swann hasn’t gotten all the bugs yet. I understand he hasn’t even tackled the bridge yet.”
Valerian grimaced. “No, he hasn’t.”
“Well, come on over here then, while he does his thing there. Been talking a bit with Matt, and we might have a place to hide for a while once we get rid of your tracking devices.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jim looked up as Valerian emerged onto the bridge. The man knew how to make an entrance, Raynor had to admit. Compared with the rumpled, rather dirty appearance of his own crew, Valerian virtually sparkled. But the recent events had taken some of the shine off the boy. Jim noticed that, young as Valerian was, there were furrows along that high brow that hadn’t been there before, and he didn’t stand quite as proudly straight as he had earlier. Jim supposed he should feel satisfied, but instead, to his own confusion, he felt a little bit sad.
Horner was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Now he sighed and folded his arms as Valerian approached. He looked like he was about to volunteer to tickle a hydralisk. Valerian raised a golden eyebrow expectantly.
“First, Your Excellency,” said Horner, “I want to say I’m sorry for the loss of the Antigone. I realize that had we jumped a minute sooner, it would have made it. I want you to know I went as fast as I could.”
The coldness of Valerian’s gray eyes thawed slightly. “Thank you,” he said. “Any ideas you have to prevent further loss of life and get Sarah Kerrigan to proper care will be most welcome.”
“Well, I . . . may have a solution,” he said.
“Out with it, kid!” came Swann’s voice. Jim was amused as Valerian looked startled. Then the Heir Apparent smiled self-deprecatingly as he realized that Swann was being looped into the conversation.
“I don’t know that it’s a good solution,” Horner continued. “In fact, you know, the more I think about it—”
“Matt,” Jim said, “spit it out. That’s an order.”
Matt nodded. “Yes, sir. I was thinking we might lie low in Deadman’s Port for a while.”
“Deadman’s Port?” echoed Valerian, incredulous. “Mr. Horner, are you quite mad? That place is completely crawling with vermin! Pirates will be on us the second we warp in!”
But Jim was nodding. He thought he knew where Matt was going with this. “On the plus side, Valerian, your daddy won’t be able to just bring in the big guns and force you to go to your room without any supper,” he said. “The Dominion has absolutely no sway in that area. Arcturus would have to be prepared to launch a full-scale assault on the planet before he could even think about trying to find us, and I don’t think he’s prepared to do that. Maybe at some point, but not right now.”
Valerian’s shock had abated somewhat and he looked thoughtful. “That’s true,” he said. “He’s lost the Bucephalus and the two—the other battlecruiser that jumped with me. And I have no idea what kind of shape the ones that weren’t able to jump are in. But still—what’s to stop the fine, upstanding citizens of the worst sewer in the galaxy from attacking us and taking the spoils?”
“That won’t happen,” said Jim, permitting himself a grin and clapping Horner on the shoulder. “We got ourselves an ace in the hole in that sewer. Don’t we, Matthew?”
Horner actually blushed. “I, uh . . . do have a contact there, yes,” he said. “Someone who would, I think, be willing to give us safe harbor for at least a while.”
Swann burst out, “You’re stark raving mad, Horner! Mira Han? That woman’s a dirty merc!”
“Now, now, Swann,” said Jim. “You better watch your manners. You’re talking about the man’s—”
“We don’t need to get into that,” Matt interrupted quickly. Valerian turned to Matt, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Horner didn’t meet the Heir Apparent’s gray gaze, waving his hand and saying, “It’s . . . a long story.”
“But, I imagine, one worth hearing at some point,” said Valerian, clearly intrigued. He returned to the business at hand. “So this Mira Han would be willing to stave off the cutthroats and pirates that populate Deadman’s Port and protect us from the Dominion, all for you?”
“It’s a long shot, but I think I can talk her into it.”
“Well, all I know is, she’s got a real soft spot for Matthew,” Raynor said. “Come on, Swann. You got a better idea?”
“With the Dominion sure to be on our ass every time we so much as try to blow our noses? Hell no, I ain’t got a better idea. And you know it kills me to say it. How are you going to contact her, Horner?”
“I have a way.”
Valerian stepped forward. “Mr. Horner, while I appreciate the fact that you are willing to do something you clearly don’t enjoy to assist me—”
“With all due respect, I’m not doing it for you; I’m doing it for the Raiders.” Matt’s voice was icy.
“Point taken. However, considering the risk factor, I’d still like to know how you’re going to be able to contact her.”
Horner glanced at Raynor, who nodded. Jim was curious too. Matt slumped slightly, defeated. “She sends me information regularly about which channels are secure. Just in case I feel like talking to her. This would be the first time I’ve done so.”
“Aww, poor Mira,” said Jim. “Maybe I should get you some time off while we’re there.”
“Oh, please, sir,” Matt said, quite earnestly, “I’d rather work double shifts.”
“Well then, you better contact that . . . person,” said Swann, clearly annoyed at the time-wasting banter. “And I better finish up here on the bridge. Let me know if you need me; otherwise, I’m over here doing my job. These little things ain’t going to disable themselves, you know.” There was a decisive click.
“As usual, Swann’s right,” Raynor said. “We’re wasting time jawing. Valerian, you’d best get back to your bridge. We’ve got only a few more minutes until we can expect to see your father.”
“A reunion most undesired,” said Valerian.
“Actually,” Horner said, “I’ve got an idea about that too.”
* * *
Earl and Annabelle had been quietly listening in to the conversation their boss was having with Raynor, Horner, and Valerian. When the words Deadman’s Port were mentioned, Annabelle grimaced and saw Earl make a similar expression. Swann’s expression was even darker—a thundercloud in a normally sunny sky. Deadman’s Port was a place to steer clear of, not to steer to. But as the old saying went, any port in a storm, and if Mira Han could keep the Dominion off their backs long enough for them to effect repairs, she supposed it was worth the risk.
Of course, they had to finish finding all the tracking devices before they could leap there. If Arcturus and the rest of the Dominion fleet materialized before the Hyperion, Herakles, and Bucephalus could escape, Annabelle knew that all the planning would be for nothing. Earl was an expert at nanotechnology. He knew where to plant things, and consequently, where others would be inclined to plant them. Between Earl, Annabelle (who remembered where many of the trackers had been on the Hyperion), and Swann (with his overall knowledge and sharp instincts), it had gone fairly quickly—though not quickly enough. Generally, and rather unimaginatively, trackers or recording devices tended to be planted in the same areas: bridge, captain’s and guest quarters, and engineering—rath
er than in some random place on the ship.
If the bridge on the Hyperion was luxurious, this was almost over the top. Open, airy, it felt more like someone’s luxury yacht than the bridge of a battleship. While Raynor’s Raiders had nothing resembling a uniform and often appeared rumpled and unshaven, the men and women here were all spit-and-polish. Their uniforms had nary a wrinkle; their voices bespoke wealth and education. Annabelle, who knew she’d taken a sonic shower and put on fresh clothes this morning, still felt like she smelled bad as she stood next to one of the navigators. The young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed and intimidatingly handsome, looked up at her inquiringly.
“I, uh, need to look under there,” Annabelle said, giving a shy smile. “To look for bugs and stuff.”
“Oh, of course.” Immediately he rose from his chair, and she scooted underneath the console. Fingers that were nimble and sensitive, despite hard-earned calluses, felt about the cool metal and plastic. She smiled to herself as she touched a flat, oval object concealed in the shadows.
“Got one!” she called to Rory. Quickly, efficiently, she reached for a small tool with a glowing tip. Steady hands were required to detach the tracking device, as it was designed to break if it was removed inexpertly, continuing its devious mission with no way to stop it.
Suddenly klaxons began to blare. Annabelle started, but her hands stayed steady. She heard Rory, who swore under his breath. “Arcturus is right on time, the bastard.”
“Shit,” swore Annabelle. She wondered briefly if the handsome officer had overheard her, and if so, what his opinion of her rough language might be, then instantly dismissed the thought. She bit her lip, tasting the salt of her sweat, trying to decide if she should continue attempting to detach the bug or wait until the battle was over.
Without any warning, boots appeared three centimeters from her hip as she sat curled up beneath the console. The officer had made her decision for her—he was going to be at his station, and she was stuck. She shrugged and returned her attention to her job.
“Contact the White Star,” she heard Valerian say. Annabelle paused. Was he trying to stall, buy time—or was he going to surrender?
“Well, well, now you want to talk to me,” came Arcturus Mengsk’s voice. Annabelle shrank in on herself, just a little, at the sound of that voice, knowing the video image of the emperor was only a few centimeters away.
“Indeed I do,” Valerian said. “Father, this is madness. You’re throwing lives away chasing a woman who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“As long as she draws breath, she exists. She’s a danger to me as the Queen of Blades or as Sarah Kerrigan. And if you weren’t so dazzled by silly alien prophecies, you’d see that she’s a danger to anyone around her, including you.”
“No, Father. The best way to defeat an enemy is to make her your friend.”
Arcturus guffawed at that. “That bitch is incapable of friendship. She was messed up long before I got my hands on her, and she always will be. You should have let Tychus complete his mission.”
Annabelle started. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard about Tychus returning with the others—and Tychus was never one to stay silent. She had been too busy in engineering even for rumors to reach her. Had Tychus been hired to try to kill—
“Your puppet is dead, Father. You’ve failed. And you’re always going to fail because you cannot see—”
“Enough of this! Your last chance, Valerian. Surrender, give me Kerrigan and Raynor, and we can put all this behind us.”
“On this, I will defy you down to my last breath, Father.”
“That can be arranged,” came Arcturus’s voice. “I’ve tried to be reasonable with—”
Another voice cut in abruptly. “Sir, this is Captain Roger Merriman of the Herakles. I regret to inform you that I am about to defy your orders.”
“What?” Valerian didn’t yelp, not quite, but his voice rose in pitch.
“Ha!” Arcturus sounded triumphant. “See there, Son? Your people are about to defect back over to the winning side.”
“No, Emperor Arcturus. We pledged our service to Prince Valerian, sir, and our lives. We know you planted tracking devices on his ship, and that’s how you’ve been able to follow our jumps. This ship is probably too badly damaged to make the jump—but we can buy the Heir Apparent time.”
“No,” cried Valerian, reasoning it out apparently at the same instant that Annabelle did. Her eyes widened in horror. “I forbid it. Fire on the White Star! If we cripple him, we can all—”
“No, sir,” Merriman’s voice continued. “This is the only way. Remember us to our families.”
Annabelle clasped her knees tight to control her sudden shaking. Tears stung her eyes. Nearly six thousand people were about to give their lives for Valerian, for Raynor, for the hope that Kerrigan held out.
“Sir, the Herakles is approaching the White Star at full speed,” someone said. “Time to impact . . . seven seconds.”
Instinctively, heedless of how it might be interpreted, Annabelle reached out and brushed the leg of the navigator, desperate for human contact. She expected him to pull back, but instead, a hand reached down and grasped hers. She clung to it, wordlessly, squeezing, and he—she didn’t even know his name—squeezed back.
Even from under the console, Annabelle could see the flashes of light that signaled the end of the suicide run.
There was a long, long pause. Then Valerian sighed. “It looks like it worked,” he said. “The White Star is taking heavy damage.”
“Damn, Valerian, you would have made a fine actor,” came Jim Raynor’s familiar drawl. “I think he bought it hook, line, and sinker.”
“How are my crewmen doing over there?”
“It makes for interesting people watching, but so far no fights have broken out. Gonna be a bit crowded with nearly three thousand more mouths to feed, but we’ll manage.”
“What?” The word escaped Annabelle’s mouth before she could stop it. The navigator scooted his chair back and peered down at her. A few seconds later, Valerian’s own visage appeared, the small ponytail slipping over his shoulder as he bent over.
“Ah, Miss Annabelle,” he said. “I’m afraid you were left out of the loop. My apologies.”
She blinked, looking at Valerian and the navigator, both of whom regarded her kindly. “I—it was a trick?”
“One that worked,” Valerian said. “We had just enough time to transfer the crew of the Herakles—which, sadly, had suffered great losses—to the Hyperion and the Bucephalus. We then had the captain speak from my personal suite about using the Herakles on a suicide run while the ship’s adjutant piloted it right into the White Star. Arcturus won’t be able to follow us for some time now, even if he eventually does discover where we are. The Herakles was in bad shape—but her crew is just fine.”
“Oh,” said Annabelle weakly. She wiped at her still-wet eyes and suddenly felt heat scorch her cheeks. “I feel so stupid,” she muttered.
The navigator squeezed her hand, which he was still holding. “Don’t,” he said. “The truth is, those men and women would have been willing to die for Valerian. They just didn’t have to. And if you believed it, then sure as hell Arcturus did.”
Valerian nodded, satisfied that Annabelle was all right. “Please continue, miss,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the sooner we get to Deadman’s Port, the better.”
She nodded and started to pull her hand back. The navigator held on to it for a second longer, then released it. Quietly, Annabelle asked, “Why did you do . . . that?” She gestured at his hand. “I mean—you knew it was a trick.”
He smiled gently, his dark eyes kind. “You didn’t,” was all he said.
* * *
Sarah looked no better when Jim returned to the Bucephalus. He supposed he shouldn’t have assumed she would, but somehow, knowing she was hooked up to all those tubes and such, he guessed he had. Frederick nodded as he entered.
“She’s out, but
she’s stable.”
“All right. Just going to sit with her awhile.”
“Go right ahead.”
Jim winced as his chair scraped the floor slightly, but Sarah didn’t stir. She was indeed “out.” He took her hand in his again, recalling that some people believed that even when in a coma, people were aware of such things. He hoped it was true.
Mentally, he went over the last few hours. He’d consistently kept putting his faith in Valerian, usually reluctantly, but thus far, the kid had been true to his word. It had been Matt who had suggested the initial plan for ramming the damaged Herakles into the White Star. Initially it looked like the only way to make it work was to leave a skeleton crew on the ship, but to both Jim’s and Matt’s surprise, Valerian flatly refused.
“I’ve lost too many loyal people today,” he had said. “My father may go through his followers like tissue paper, but I don’t. If we can’t save the ship, we must save its crew, or I will not order it.”
And so they had decided on mass evacuation—tricky to do subtly and quickly—and to program the adjutant to fly the empty ship to its doom and, one devoutly hoped, the doom of the White Star and Arcturus Mengsk.
But Jim had long ago lost that naïve hopefulness. Even if his ship didn’t survive it, Mengsk would. He was like a cockroach—filthy but a survivor. He would come after them again, Jim was sure of it. The questions were when, where, and how.
It was almost impossible for Jim to believe that he had once been an ardent follower of the man. He’d slowly begun to become disillusioned with the terrorist and one-time ally who said what he wanted to hear, but even at his most angry, his most suspicious, he had never seen the betrayal coming.
Nor, bless her shattered soul, had Sarah . . . .
2500
After Antiga Prime had fallen to the zerg, Sarah still hadn’t recovered the color in her cheeks, nor had the blue-green circles under her eyes faded completely. She and Jim, after their first cups of coffee together, had gravitated to each other. Something more than physical exhaustion seemed to be troubling her, but Jim didn’t want to press. They had been aware that things were looming on the horizon, but after Sarah had been so drained from deploying the psi emitter, both of them were willing to shut their eyes to what lay ahead and simply enjoy the moment.
Flashpoint Page 7