Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  Their eyes met. Something electric passed between them—a recognition, an acknowledgment of honed skills and strong nerves and a pool of deep regret that all of this, any of this, was necessary.

  They’d found someone who knew where the plans were. Sarah had read his thoughts easily, and they’d left him and a team of fourteen bloody, unconscious, and alive. Mengsk had been pleased as punch, of course, and the rebellion’s own goliaths had been upgraded. Once again, the odds had been changed.

  Changed by Sarah Kerrigan, the ghost, the weapon who grieved.

  2504

  It was, Valerian mused as he leaned against the bar in the Hyperion’s cantina, a truly interesting path that had led him here. His father would not recognize the place—and that made him smile a little into his mai tai. The air was thick with smoke, and tinny music blasted from something he recalled was known as a “jukebox” suspended from the ceiling. It looked like it had been damaged and patched up, and his smile turned ironic as he listened to the singer caution about “suspicious minds.”

  “It had about twice as many songs before Tychus Findlay broke it,” said Cooper, the bartender.

  Valerian frowned slightly. Findlay. Valerian agreed with Jim’s choice, but he knew it had been a difficult one for Raynor.

  “Mai tai not to your liking?” Cooper asked, clearly worried at Valerian’s expression.

  “Oh, it’s excellent,” said Valerian, and meant it. “If the rest of your drinks are as delicious, then I must say your talents are squandered here.”

  Cooper, an amiable-looking fellow with dark hair and blue eyes, chuckled a little as he shook up yet another concoction for a customer. “Nah,” he said. “I like it fine here. Been with the Raiders for a while. They fight hard and they risk everything. Least they deserve is a good drink at the end of the day.”

  “Or the start of one,” said Valerian.

  “You might not believe it, but we don’t have a lot of drunks here,” said Cooper, pouring the drink and handing it to a young woman. Valerian recognized her at once—and the gentleman who was keeping her company.

  “Miss Annabelle,” he said, and to the young man standing next to her, “Lieutenant Rawlins. Aren’t you still on duty?”

  “Sir, I’m a navigator, and right now, we’re planet-bound,” said Rawlins. “Captain Vaughn said I could buy this lady a drink. It’s the least we could do to apologize for the trick we played on her.”

  Valerian smiled at the young woman. “I agree,” he said. “And thank you. Your team did fine work under extreme pressure. I don’t think the Bucephalus would be here if not for you.”

  Annabelle colored slightly. “Thanks,” she said. “Just doing my job.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why Raynor’s Raiders have given my father such difficulty,” he said.

  “We do our best to be thorns in the side,” Annabelle replied. She turned back to her companion. “Thanks for the drink, Travis,” she said. “Come with me. I know where the best table is.”

  “So tell me more about your idea for the dropships,” said Travis. Although Valerian was aware that his navigator knew next to nothing about engineering, Travis sounded genuinely interested. Valerian smiled a little.

  “And that,” said Cooper, also watching the pair stroll off together, “is why I do what I do. Now a question for you, sir—why are you here and not on your ship?”

  “I’m . . . not quite sure myself,” Valerian said. “I imagine that since we have perforce joined together to stand against my father, I wanted to get to know more of the people I am working with.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Also, perhaps, to get some information?”

  Valerian gave him a quick, sharp look, but Cooper merely smiled and began to rinse some glasses. “Come on; everyone talks to the bartender. You got questions, I got answers. But I got some questions of my own. Care to trade?”

  “Sounds fair,” said Valerian. “Although you must know there are some things I am not at liberty to share.”

  “Sure,” said Cooper. “Matt and Jim are the same way. You go first.”

  “All right. What’s your opinion of Mr. Raynor?”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t respect him,” said Cooper. “Lot of money to be had for someone who turns him in.”

  “So you never say a bad word against him?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Cooper. He began to dry the glasses. “There were moments I had my doubts. Like when he was so thick with that protoss Zeratul. And for a while there, I was worried that the liquor was getting the upper hand.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Well, nothing’s changed my mind about the protoss. You ever met them?”

  “I have.”

  “Creepy, aren’t they?” Cooper made a face. “No mouths, the way they move, and that whole reading-your-minds thing they do—no, sir, my apologies if you like them like Jim does, but I’d just as soon never have to look at one again. As for the drinking—well, Jim proved soon enough he’s got the right stuff. He comes in now and then, and he drinks, and he has a good time, but I’ve stopped worrying about him. He’s got his priorities straight.”

  “And those are?”

  Cooper shot him a grin. “Ah-ah,” he said, “that’s more than one question I’ve answered. My turn.”

  Valerian toasted him with the half-full drink. “Fire away.”

  “Everyone knows that you’ve broken with your father over the whole Sarah Kerrigan business. But what now? We’re not going to hide here forever.”

  Valerian eyed Cooper. “You don’t beat around the bush,” he said.

  “No, I don’t. I figure I listen to enough of that. I will level with you: the commander’s decision to go to Char didn’t sit well with the crew at first. Findlay tried to get people to not trust him.”

  “Hence the jukebox throwing.”

  “Indeed. And yet in the end, Tychus was on the floor and couldn’t get up. And the commander told us, it was our choice to follow him or leave . . . just like it had always been. There wasn’t a single Raider who left. But we want to know what it was all for, ’cause it sure didn’t end with Kerrigan becoming human. If she even is. There’s a lot of rumors running around.”

  Valerian was certain there were. He wondered what the safest course of action was, and decided that with this group, it was simply leveling. “She’s obviously not completely well, or you would have seen her walking around.”

  Cooper’s blue eyes held a trace of apprehension. “But . . . she’s okay, mostly? She’s not some . . . half-zerg thing being kept hidden from us?”

  Valerian smiled. “Most certainly not.” It was the truth. Kerrigan was okay. Mostly. “But the shock has been hard on her. She needs help, more help than I can give her on my ship. That’s why we’re here, by the good graces of one Mira Han, so that I can get her into the hands of people who can bring her the rest of the way back to herself.”

  “That Moebius Foundation, right?”

  Valerian nodded his golden head. “Right. Any minute now—I hope—I’ll be hearing from Mira that she’s obtained a safe way for me to send a transmission. One can’t be too careful.”

  Cooper grimaced. “I know. After Findlay—well, it wouldn’t surprise me if your father had some spies on this planet too. You be careful when you go send that message.” He gave Valerian a smile as he finished the glasses. “I hate to lose customers.”

  “You’ve lost too many,” said Valerian. He put down a generous handful of credits. “You’re going to be seeing a lot of my people here on the Hyperion. We had to divide the crew of the Herakles between the Bucephalus and your vessel. Treat them as well as you treat me.”

  Cooper gathered up the credits appreciatively. “You got it, Mr. V,” he said, and glanced up at the entrance. “Well, look who’s here,” he said. “I’m surprised she let him out of her clutches—I mean, her arms.”

  The comment was a good-natured one, and Valerian turned to see Matt Horner striding into
the cantina. He went up to Valerian and said, “We have a problem.”

  “I’ll mix you another drink,” said Cooper, turning to suit action to word.

  Valerian snapped to attention. “What’s wrong? Was Mira unable to get me a secure connection?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s been taken care of. The problem is, you need to get to it.”

  The Heir Apparent frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me put it to you this way,” said Matt. He bent over, and smeared his hand on the floor. It came up greasy with dripped oil, smudged with dirt, and dotted with a few other things that Valerian didn’t want to think about. “See this?” asked Matt, indicating his grimy hand.

  Valerian made a face. “I do, though I wish I didn’t.”

  Without warning, Matt reached over and smeared the filth on Valerian’s cheek. “That’s a start,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Before Matt could observe it, let alone react, Valerian’s hand had shot up, seized the captain’s wrist, and twisted painfully. Matt’s knees buckled, and Valerian heard the sounds of chairs being shoved back as the bar patrons prepared to come to their captain’s defense. He let go at once but kept his gaze locked with Horner’s.

  “If you have a problem with me, say so,” he snapped, his voice deepening with anger.

  “I don’t,” said Matt, looking at him with a slightly stunned expression and rubbing his wrist. “You’ve got the problem. You look like . . . well . . . you. And if we’re going to be taking a stroll through Deadman’s Port, the less like you you look, the better.”

  Valerian had long ago learned to master his anger. Now and then it rose to the surface, as it had just done, to strike swiftly and surely like a venomous snake, but it always subsided quickly.

  “I understand. You might simply have said so.” He gestured to Matt’s wrist. “Saved yourself a bit of pain.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” grunted Matt. “Gotta say I’m surprised you could even do that.”

  “Oh, you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” Valerian replied, taking a sip from the second mai tai Cooper had prepared for him. “But as to business. Why do we need to walk?”

  “Mira says that even though the place is a total junkyard, most people walk if they need to get somewhere. The populace has swollen because of the recent zerg attacks. It used to be that mercs and criminals made up most of the population, but now it’s composed mainly of refugees. Nobody’s got money. Any kind of a vehicle or ship is going to attract attention.”

  While they spoke, Cooper had been wordlessly working on preparing another drink, and now gently pushed it toward Horner, who accepted it with a nod and a couple of credits.

  “Very well,” Valerian replied. He indicated the beverage. “I see you’re a gin and tonic man.”

  “Tonic and synthlime, yes,” said Matt. “I generally don’t drink on duty. So we’ve got to get you looking as miserable, wretched, and impoverished as the rest of the population. And begging your pardon,” he said as he took a sip, “that is going to be one hell of a challenge.”

  Valerian gave him a faint smile. “Perhaps less than you think,” he said.

  * * *

  After about a half hour of asking around, Matt rounded up some clothing that was suitably worn. It came from one of Swann’s people, who was, according to Matt, “someone who likes to get his hands dirty when he works.”

  Valerian eyed the clothing, trying not to look too offended by the, uh, fragrance wafting up from the oil-stained and patched trousers, shirt, jacket, and boots. “This should do nicely,” he drawled.

  “Too bad we can’t wait a day or two for some stubble to grow out,” Matt said, “but you’ll have to do. A bit of dirt on your face and in your hair and you should look the part at least.” Matt was trying to look all business, but it was obvious to Valerian that Horner was enjoying the thought of the Heir Apparent slouching through streets smelling like a refugee. The thought was equal parts amusing and annoying.

  “‘Look the part at least’?” he repeated. “Sounds like you don’t think I can pull this off, Captain Horner.”

  “I admit, I’m worried. One wrong move and we’re dead men. And the bunker is about five kilometers from here.”

  “You don’t look terribly disreputable yourself,” Valerian said. “Perhaps I should be worried about you. I take it the marines are to be left aboard the Bucephalus.”

  “Indeed, sir. The resocialized ones will be unable to deny their programming, and that makes them unsuitable for undercover work. And even your marines won’t be able to shed their military bearing.”

  “Quite so.”

  “We could bring a couple of the less well-known Raiders to defend you. That is,” added Matt, “assuming that you trust us.”

  The annoyance was starting to overwhelm the amusement. Valerian turned to Horner. “You don’t like me,” he said, “and you don’t trust me. Yet here I am, putting myself in your hands. If we’re going to work together, Captain Horner, then for pity’s sake, let’s work together, shall we? This posturing grows tiresome.”

  A faint flush of color rose in Matt’s cheeks. Obviously Valerian’s comment had hit home. “Of course.”

  “Besides,” Valerian said, turning to regard the sour-smelling clothes once more, “this little task gets you away from Mira Han. I would think you’d be a bit more grateful.”

  The ice didn’t break completely, but Matt struggled not to smile.

  * * *

  They stepped outside the makeshift shelter of the junk heap that was actually one of the most notorious battlecruisers in the galaxy, and again Valerian struggled not to cough at the thick miasma. Horner eyed him speculatively. He himself tended to err more on the “clean-cut” side of things than most of the Raiders, but Valerian had been a challenge. Other than the initial surprisingly fast—and painful—reaction, the prince had resigned himself to the charade. Looking at him now, Matt had to wonder if he might even get past his own father.

  There was nothing they could do with the resources they had on hand about his patrician features, other than smear stuff on them. Which they had done. Valerian was chewing—something he had gotten from . . . someone—and bent over to spit out a quick stream of vile-colored liquid.

  “I hope this comes off one’s teeth,” he muttered.

  “I think it does, unless you chew regularly,” Matt said.

  The golden hair had come undone and Valerian had run fingers greasy with oil through it. They each sported pistols. The one Valerian had wanted to bring had been as spit-and-polish as the man himself. Horner had nixed it and substituted a more beat-up one from the Hyperion’s weapons locker. For a moment as he stood getting accustomed to what passed for air, Valerian was still ramrod straight, but even as Matt opened his mouth to comment on it, the prince shifted his weight to one hip, affecting a slouch.

  “Good,” Matt said.

  Valerian’s lips twitched, and he lifted a finger dangerously close to his nostril.

  “Okay, you don’t need to go that far,” Matt grumbled, fighting back a laugh. “Let’s go. We need to be careful. Even dressed like this, we still look better off than half the people who live here. Come on.”

  They clambered down from the “junk pile” and jumped the last meter down into the trough that served as a corridor. Matt observed that the layers of rubbish were almost like layers of sediment. Debris from newer ships was simply piled atop older heaps. He wondered what era his feet were treading on and what had happened to the men and women who had flown in what once had been part of a spacefaring vessel.

  They headed north as best they could, following the directions that Mira had given Matt, breathily whispered into his ear and followed by a light kiss. He winced slightly at the memory and focused on the task at hand.

  Valerian kept pace with him, putting a little swagger into his movements. The narrow corridor opened out onto a flatter area, and Matt shook his head. “This place is almost overrun,” he said. />
  Valerian didn’t answer. His sharp gray eyes were taking it in. There were dozens of people in this small area. Children, some of them barely clothed, were running about unsupervised, crawling into spaces and jumping about recklessly on the broken and twisted pieces of metal that had once been ships. There was color everywhere, from the pieces of clothing to the pieces of debris. Valerian’s gaze seemed to be following one little boy who was intently scraping something off a large blue hunk of metal. “What’s he doing?” Valerian asked quietly.

  “Getting lunch,” Matt replied. Even as he spoke, the boy lifted his filthy hands to his mouth and shoved something in it. Valerian looked away quickly. “Don’t,” Matt hissed. “You can’t show any weakness. And don’t get taken in by the kids either. Yeah, the poverty’s real, but so are the child gangs that will lure you away so the bigger kids can take you for all you’ve got. Jim got suckered into that trap the first time he came here.”

  “I understand,” said Valerian. His voice was resolute, but there was sorrow in it.

  They shoved their way past the throngs of children who, once they saw the pair, immediately latched onto their legs and held out dirty, sticky, imploring hands, begging, “Please, mister, please, mister?”

  “Get off,” snarled Matt, with an anger and disgust he didn’t feel, and pushed at them vigorously. He was firm, but not cruel. One of the children stumbled and fell. He didn’t land hard, but one would never know it by how he filled his little lungs with air and let loose with a wail of pain. The boy was good, even came up with a few tears.

  “What are you doing to by kid?” came an angry, deep voice. The words were slightly slurred, but no less ominous for that. Matt winced inwardly. Here it came. The man was taller than either he or Valerian, and if not quite as well built as Tychus Findlay, was still an imposing specimen. Another reminder of Findlay was the scar that ran down the side of his face, though part of this man’s lip had been severed. He wasn’t alone. Two friends, almost as nasty-looking as he, fell into place and advanced on Matt and Valerian.