Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  “Teaching him manners,” said Valerian before Matt could attempt to defuse the situation.

  “You saying by boy ain’t got banners?” The slurring was anything but comical, coming from that misshapen mouth.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Keep him off us, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Scarlip sneered, which presented a truly disturbing image. “I don’t sink you’re going anywhere.” One dinner-plate-sized fist reached out, grabbed Valerian by his shirt, and lifted him up. Matt caught the glitter of knives out of the corner of his eye. He had just lifted his gun when . . . everything happened.

  Valerian moved so fast he was quite literally a blur to Matt’s eyes. Valerian’s hands went instantly to the big one grasping his shirt, and a fraction of a second later Scarlip was on his knees shrieking. The big man’s two pals both rushed Valerian, but suddenly the Heir Apparent simply was not there, but behind both of them instead. He leaped upward and kicked out, each booted foot landing on a broad back, and then—there was no other word for it—Valerian ran up the two men, pausing only long enough to knock their heads together before jumping off to land in a crouch, a knife that Matt had not known he possessed clutched in his hand.

  The two men crumpled, not out cold, but definitely out of the fight. Scarlip bellowed and charged for him. Valerian waited, balancing on the balls of his feet, until the last possible second before darting out of the way. Scarlip’s momentum propelled him forward, and he slammed with all the speed of his charge into a wall of debris. There was a solid thump as he struck, then a singing, stinging noise.

  Valerian’s knife pinned the other man’s tattered shirtsleeve to what might or might not have been an old mattress.

  Scarlip stared for a moment, then laughed. He tugged the knife free and turned, clutching it in his huge hand.

  “You bissed,” he snarled.

  Valerian smiled beatifically. “No,” he said gently, “I didn’t. I have no desire to deprive a child of a parent—even of your sort.” Both Scarlip and Matt noticed at the same moment that a second knife was in Valerian’s hand. “Now,” the prince continued, “do you want to let us pass, or must we follow this fight to its logical conclusion?”

  The man’s piggy eyes went from Valerian’s calm face—damn, thought Matt, Valerian wasn’t even breathing hard—to the knife, back to the face. He muttered something, tossed the knife down, and strode over to his son.

  Valerian nodded, picked up the knife, and turned to Matt. Matt stared at him wordlessly for a second, then they continued on. They were not followed.

  “I . . . had no idea you could do that,” said Matt.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. Any of it.”

  Valerian offered a small, tight smile. “You thought I was a bookish, effeminate weakling, didn’t you?”

  “I—” Matt didn’t want to confirm it, but he didn’t want to lie either. So he struggled to find a middle path. “Let’s just say I certainly didn’t expect you to handle yourself so well three to one.”

  “Three to two,” said Valerian. “I saw that gun come out.”

  “You were moving too fast for me to get a clean shot.”

  “ . . . Sorry?”

  Matt had to laugh. “Guess I owe you an apology.”

  “Not really. You know very little about me, Mr. Horner,” Valerian continued as they trudged forward. “You’ve seen me cutting ribbons on UNN and heard me wax enthusiastic about ancient artifacts in person. You know I appreciate luxury and the arts, and I bear no obvious battle scars. What you don’t know is that for most of my life, I was a secret. I’ve probably spent more hours in the company of military men than you have. Perhaps even than Mr. Raynor. I trained long and hard, with ancient weapons such as swords—”

  “And knives.”

  “—and knives,” Valerian agreed. “I know three different types of martial arts.”

  “Can you kill me with a spoon?”

  “Only amateurs need spoons,” said Valerian, so deadpan that for a second Matt wondered if he was serious. Their eyes met, and Matt saw mirth in the gray depths for a moment before Valerian looked away. “I never felt safe for a moment during my childhood. I’ve learned to be on my guard at all times, even when it’s unnecessary. I picked the fight rather than backing down because word gets around in places like this. I don’t expect we’ll be troubled any further.”

  “You attracted attention,” Matt said.

  “I would rather be alive and have attracted attention, than dead and disregarded. As, I imagine, are most of those who die here.”

  “I did try to prepare you.”

  “You did, and I was. It’s . . . ” Valerian groped for words, then apparently could not find them. “A government is supposed to care for its people. But after the recent zerg attacks—they’ve been left here to rot, Matt. Men, women, children—the Dominion wouldn’t lift a finger to help them.”

  “Well, the Dominion isn’t exactly welcome here.”

  “And yet I saw there was food being shared, even though there were pockets being picked. Did you recognize the packs?”

  “Uh,” said Matt ineloquently.

  “I notice everything,” Valerian said. “I have to. I saw two packs that had the same insignia as Mira’s jumpsuit. It’s the sign of her so-called mercenary band. They’re getting food to these people. Thugs and murderers and mercenaries seem to have bigger hearts than the people running my father’s government.”

  Matt was silent. Mira had always struck him as an “out for herself” kind of gal. But he believed Valerian, and the revelation was forcing him to think of Mira in another light. Too, she had the damned Heir Apparent in her hands and had to know that Arcturus would reward her handsomely for turning Valerian in.

  But she hadn’t.

  Not so far anyway. And Matt knew, though he wasn’t quite sure how he knew, that she wouldn’t.

  “I wonder if we should tell her about Sarah,” he said to Valerian.

  “No,” the prince said at once. “Tens of thousands of people here were displaced because of the actions of the Queen of Blades. Billions more died. If word gets out that Mira is harboring Kerrigan, all her charity won’t buy Sarah a moment of life from those seeking revenge, and the streets are crammed with them.” His voice was both sad and bitter. “I won’t return Mira’s kindness by putting a mark on her head.”

  Matt didn’t answer. He was ashamed the thought hadn’t occurred to him first. “Hang on,” he said, and came to a halt. He’d gotten so engrossed in the conversation he wondered if he might have missed the place. Quickly he checked the map Mira had sketched for him.

  “This can’t be right,” Valerian said.

  “I . . . think it is,” Matt said. He showed Valerian the map, with some symbols sketched on it, then pointed to a piece of what had once been the chair of some long-destroyed ship. The same symbols were etched on it, probably with a knife. Valerian lifted a golden brow.

  “Good thing neither of us is as big as Tychus was,” said Matt, and slipped through the narrow aperture below the symbols.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jim had been gone for only a little while. He hadn’t wanted to leave Sarah alone with strangers at all, but he was a biological being, and his body had some needs that needed to be addressed. One of them was getting food. His stomach had rumbled so loudly that both of the doctors—Yeats and Becker—had looked at him askance.

  Mira had been true to her word—no one was going to cook or clean for Jim. As he rummaged through the sprawling kitchen looking for something to heat up quickly, he found himself missing assassin-butler Randall. He was certain that man could have whipped up a culinary masterpiece from table scraps. He suddenly had a flashback to himself and Tychus in this kitchen once. The chefs had been annoyed but had not protested as Tychus helped himself out of pots of still-simmering food. More than once, they had stumbled into this kitchen at oh-dark-thirty, looking for something to stave off the inevitable hangover.
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  “Shit,” Jim said. “Sooner I get out of here, the better.”

  He wasn’t gone long, but apparently it was long enough. When he returned to Sarah a few minutes later with two plates of noodles and sauce from a stockpile of military rations, it was to find two dissimilar faces—one elderly and wrinkled and pale, the other dark as coffee and smooth-skinned—wearing similar expressions of concern.

  Sarah lay on the bed, her breathing slow and regular, various tubes attached to her arms and chest. Her eyes were closed.

  “How is she?” Jim asked, his own voice conveying his worry.

  “Not good,” the older doctor, Yeats, replied. “We had an incident earlier.”

  Jim’s gut clenched. “What happened?”

  “She tried to pull out one of her . . . well, we’ve begun referring to them as ‘head quills,’ ” said Becker. “It tore slightly at the base, but it’s a minor injury. We’ve repaired the damage.”

  Jim swallowed. “I see.”

  “Since then she’s refused to respond to any questions and acts as if we’re not present.”

  “She awake?” Jim asked, keeping his voice low as he gazed at the form lying under the sheet across the room.

  “Yes,” said Yeats, “but as Dr. Becker said, she’s ignoring us.”

  “She won’t ignore me.”

  Jim brushed past the doctors to take a seat in the chair beside Sarah. He scraped the legs loudly as he pulled the chair back, letting her know he was there. She was facing away from him and didn’t move as he sat down. From this angle, he could see the wounded tendril; it had been carefully bandaged at the base.

  “Hey, darlin’,” Jim said.

  “Quit staring at my head,” she said without turning around.

  “Reading my mind again?”

  “No. I just know you. And I know the doctors told you what happened.”

  “Yeah, they did. You got pretty mad.”

  “You have no idea.” Her voice managed to be both icy and full of heat. She was utterly furious and controlling herself by a sheer effort of will. He wanted to touch her but knew the gesture wouldn’t be welcomed. So instead, he kept his voice light.

  “You know, I reckon you’re right about that. No one knows what’s going on inside someone else.”

  “You do if you’re a telepath.”

  Jim had to chuckle at that. “You got me there. Let’s say that I don’t know what’s going on inside anyone else.”

  “We agree. Is this conversation over?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  Silence. One hand moved up toward her head, as if to brush back the tendrils. But Jim knew it wasn’t so innocent a gesture, and his hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could do further harm.

  “Ain’t no cause to go hurting yourself,” he said quietly. “Not going to bring anyone back. Besides—it wasn’t you that did it. It was that damned infestation. They made you into their queen, Sarah. You didn’t do it. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  He was prepared for another outburst of rage and violence, but instead Sarah’s hand went limp in his grasp. She let him guide it gently down beside her.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said softly. “About anything.” Anyone else would have been fooled by the calm tone of voice. It didn’t fool Jim for a minute. She was still full of rage, simmering inside, keeping a tight lid on it. And anyone knew that if you kept too tight a lid on something, it boiled over and made one hell of a mess.

  He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Sarah. You got that? No matter what.”

  2500

  “We’re going to get those people out, no matter what,” Jim said firmly. “Our intel says that a lot of those scientists on Orna III ain’t exactly happy with what they’re being forced to do.”

  “ ‘Forced’?” said the young first officer of the Cormorant, the ship that was bearing Jim and Sarah to the science facility under discussion. The boy—what was his name, Jack Horner or something—was all dewy-eyed and wet behind the ears. Jim recognized the look. Not so long ago, he’d seen it when he looked in the mirror. Before the Guild Wars and betrayal had changed him.

  “Forced,” said Jim. “Not all of ’em, mind. Some of them probably enjoy what they’re doing. In the name of science and all that. But a lot of them are as sick as we are at what’s going on there. They’re going to be rescued just as much as the, uh . . . ” He turned to look at Sarah for the word.

  “Experimental subjects,” Sarah said coldly. Jim mentally shrugged. He’d been going for the word patients or something similar.

  “With your permission, ma’am,” said Horner, “we’ve heard a lot of rumors. They can’t all be true.” His assurance faltered under Sarah’s unblinking stare.

  “Rumors? You mean things like genetic splicing? Brain modification? Disease testing? Telepathic experimentation? And torture if there is noncompliance? Those kind of rumors?”

  Horner looked uneasily at his captain, an elegant, dark-skinned woman named Sharyn Moore. She nodded that he could feel free to speak his mind.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Horner, sounding a little less certain.

  “Oh, they’re true.”

  She didn’t need to say anything more. The bridge crew looked at one another and shifted uneasily.

  “The scientists in this facility are doing covert experimentations on their own citizens,” Jim said. “Doing just what Sarah said they’re doing. That’s why we gotta stop ’em.”

  “How will you know who wants to leave?” Horner asked.

  “I won’t. Sarah will. Our job is to get these scientists with a conscience and the, uh, experimental subjects safely aboard the Cormorant. Your jobs are to be standing by ready to help us do that and then get us the hell out of here.”

  “We’ll be rigging the place with explosives,” Sarah said, “so time is of the essence.”

  Jim was startled, but he forced his expression to stay neutral. Sarah had said nothing about blowing up the facility in the briefing she’d given him, Mike, and Mengsk aboard the Hyperion. He decided he’d have a word with her in private. Right about now.

  “We should be there in about three hours,” he said. “All personnel—be ready. I understand you’re our main contact, Jack.”

  “Um, it’s Matt Horner, sir.”

  “Matt? I thought it was Jack.”

  Horner colored slightly. “Everyone does, sir,” he said, resignedly. “And no, I don’t sit in the corner eating pie. Also . . . I hate plums.”

  That was it—an old nursery rhyme about Little Jack Horner. Jim was a bit embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. Matt gave him a don’t-worry-about-it grin.

  Jim suddenly liked the guy very much. “You’re our main contact, Matt,” he repeated, more seriously. “You’re our lifeline. Don’t let me down.”

  Just that fast, Matt straightened and got that earnest look back in his eyes. “I won’t, sir,” he said. “You can count on that. With your permission, I’d like to go over the plan one more time.”

  “Fire away, Junior.”

  Matt cleared his throat. “Miss Kerrigan has forged documents admitting one wanted terrorist, James Raynor, to the facility for observation and study. The admission of said terrorist is very hush-hush. We have already received confirmation from the lead scientist to proceed with admissions. Mr. Raynor will be escorted by a ghost, so there will be little need for the sort of beefed-up security that might otherwise be required.”

  He glanced over at Kerrigan with a raised eyebrow. “So far, so good,” she said, and Matt continued.

  “The Cormorant has permission to stay in orbit until the ghost escort is satisfied that all requirements for Raynor’s admission are met, and she has safely returned. Once you two dock, with Mr. Raynor apparently quite well secured, we start directing you where to go, thanks to the blueprints of the facility you provided, Miss Kerrigan. Then . . . ”

  * * *

  A few moments later, their boots clanking on the metal floor of
the old merchantman vessel, Jim said, “When were you planning to tell me about the explosives?”

  She didn’t look at him. “I planned to tell you about them precisely when I did, Jim,” she said.

  “Why did Mengsk order that?”

  Now she looked up at him, her eyes intense. “He didn’t order it. I did.”

  “What?”

  “As the ranking member of this team here in the field, the decision is mine to make.”

  “That’s a hell of a big decision not to at least run by the boss,” Jim said.

  “Arcturus doesn’t own me!” she snapped. He blinked at her vehemence, and she calmed. “We can’t let that scientific data reach anyone else,” she said, her voice low and firm, but quivering slightly. “It wasn’t even obtained for decent motives, like how to cure diseases or anything remotely humanitarian. It was obtained by torture, in order to perform better torture, in order to make innocent people who were too weak to stop it into monsters.”

  And suddenly Jim knew this wasn’t about the mission. Or the information. This was about Sarah. He stopped, gently taking her arm to halt her as well. She jerked it away, but stopped, her jaw set.

  “Sarah, adding an extra factor like setting explosives makes this mission more dangerous than it has to be—both for us and for the people we’re trying to rescue,” Jim said quietly. “I know you want—”

  “This isn’t about revenge,” she said, reading his thoughts before he could speak them. “It’s about justice. People who do what they do shouldn’t be allowed to live. The knowledge they obtained by—by doing these things shouldn’t be allowed to be known. Jim—I know about Johnny.”

  Jim went cold inside and took a step back. “What do you know? Who told you?”

  “Mike . . . didn’t exactly tell me. I read his thoughts.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I . . . there’s no one in this galaxy who understands how you feel more than I do. Your son suffered, Jimmy. I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, swallowing. “I always wondered. Sarah . . . you can’t tell me what they did to John. But . . . please . . . what did they do to you?”