Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  Her eyes were wide and pleading. “Don’t ask me that,” she said, almost begging.

  “I can’t support this plan of yours unless I can understand why you want it so bad,” he said.

  Sarah looked away. “You’ll hate me if I tell you. You’re better off not knowing.”

  “I’ve always been a stubborn son of a gun,” he said, and gave her a grin he didn’t feel. “And I don’t think I could ever hate you, Sarah.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then began to speak in a calm, detached voice. “The Confederacy gave rise to the ghost program. There’s so much evil that can be laid at their feet, Jim. And I don’t use that word lightly. I can’t, not having done the things I’ve done.”

  Jim thought about his son and his mother. One had been taken and subjected to horrors similar to those he was about to learn of; the other died from cancer caused by the government’s utter and criminal lack of interest in providing safe food for the hungry. Oh yeah, he didn’t have any qualms about using the word evil to describe the Confederacy.

  “I was a child when they came for me—just like Johnny was. I had no control of my abilities. They wanted to know what I could do. They wanted me to display my abilities so they could analyze and classify me, figure out how best to use me. I was kept in isolation, except when they brought me out to try to test me. But one day they gave me a companion. A kitten. I had her for three weeks. A little black kitten with a white front and white paws. I named her Boots.”

  Jim suddenly didn’t want to hear any more, but knew he had to.

  “They implanted a tumor in Boots. It would kill her, slowly. Painfully. I was told I had the ability to end her life—and her suffering.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.” Her choice—to let an innocent creature continue to suffer rather than submit herself to the will of her tormentors—clearly distressed her, even to this day.

  “Because you didn’t want to let them know what you could do,” he said.

  “Because I had killed before with what I could do,” she said, her voice thick with pain. “I knew what they wanted to turn me into. And I didn’t want to do that to anyone, ever again.”

  “But you did,” he said quietly. “And you still do.”

  It was a harsh statement, but one delivered with compassion, not cruelty.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I do what I have to do in order to stop this from ever happening again to anyone else. Inside that so-called science facility, they’re doing things like what they did to me and worse on men, women, and children. I’m going to blow up this place, Jim. Because that’s what needs to happen. You with me?”

  Jim didn’t even need to think twice. His mind filled with the images of a playful kitten slowly growing sicker and sicker, and a little girl whose heart broke more with each passing day. He gave her a sharp nod.

  “I’m all in, darlin’,” said Jim.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  2500

  After what she had revealed to him, Jim was actually surprised that Sarah could content herself with blowing up the station and not tearing the mad scientists limb from limb. It was, he suspected, her real strength asserting itself. Anyone with a weapon—like a Colt Single Action Army revolver or a gauss rifle or telepathy—could be strong enough to kill. He knew that well enough. But Sarah’s deep-rooted abhorrence of the act gave her the strength to choose not to kill. Now he understood at least a little bit of what drove her, and the knowledge only made him admire her all the more.

  They had worked well together before, but this was different. The goal was more complicated. Finding and freeing the poor experimented-on sons of bitches was straightforward enough, granted. But they also had to find the decent men and women mixed in with the sickos and liberate them along with the victims. Oh, and rig explosives to blow the place up. And the only assistance the two of them would have in any of this was Jack—dammit—Matt Horner’s voice in their ears vectoring them in. Jim fought to keep his unease down, both for himself and to prevent a negative feedback loop with Sarah.

  “I know,” Sarah said, reading his thoughts again. “It’s a tough one. And I’m making it tougher. But you know I’m right.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. You are. Let’s do this thing.” He held up his hands, and she snapped the cuffs around his hands and feet. To all appearances they were good, solid, Confederate metal cuffs and clanged quite satisfactorily, if completely ineffectively. She eyed him for a second.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “For what?” he asked.

  The punch should have been expected but wasn’t. For an instant, Jim saw stars. He could feel the swelling happening almost at once in his jaw and resisted the urge to wipe away the blood. He understood, of course, why she’d done it.

  “Sarah, honey,” he said, lisping a little around the swelling, “you hit like a girl.”

  She grinned, for the first time since their somber conversation. “I know.”

  He disembarked from the dropship first, and she followed closely behind him. A white-coated, older man with perfectly styled silver hair awaited them in the docking area. There were two armed guards with him, and they all looked excited.

  “Dr. Orville Harris,” he said, extending a hand to Sarah. Jim knew the name. This was the master of the house of pain, the chief scientist who oversaw every one of its horrors and knew all of its dark secrets. The one who gave all the orders. Sarah eyed the outstretched hand, then clasped her own deliberately behind her back.

  “I don’t shake hands,” she said coldly.

  “Ah,” Harris said, forcing a smile. “Of course not.” The doctor turned his attention to Raynor, eyeing him up and down like a prized beast brought for slaughter. Which Jim supposed he would be, if this scenario had been real.

  “I’d like to inspect the facilities before releasing Convict 493 into your custody,” Sarah continued.

  “Of course,” said Harris. “I must thank you for bringing me such a prize, Agent . . . ?”

  “I’m a ghost,” said Sarah. “You don’t need to know my name. And these thugs,” she continued, her too-wide mouth curling into a sneer, “dismiss them, please. Unless you think I can’t handle a single bound prisoner?”

  Jim fought not to grin. She was playing Harris masterfully. The man was practically deflating before Raynor’s eyes.

  “No, no! Of course I don’t mean to imply that. As you were, gentlemen. This way, Agent . . . er, agent.”

  The door slid open, and the three—Kerrigan, Raynor, and Harris—walked into the corridor.

  Two of them left it. Harris’s body, Jim propped up in a corner, removing a small rectangular chip from the pocket of his spotless white jacket before tucking one of the small, blinking bombs—half the size of Jim’s fist—into it. There would be many more of the bombs, and all would be activated at the same time. It was, Jim mused, so small to be so lethal. Something that caused so much destruction ought to be larger, more imposing.

  “Got it,” he said, showing Sarah the key.

  She nodded briefly, not even glancing at the item. Sarah was like a predator on the hunt now, utterly focused on the task at hand. Her face held the expression Jim was starting to recognize meant I’m listening to thoughts: simultaneously laser-sharply focused and oddly distant.

  “Okay, Matt,” said Jim quietly, “Harris is down, we’ve got his key, and we’re heading due south along one of the corridors.” Sarah, of course, was familiar with the station’s layout, but this way, she could concentrate fully on other tasks. If she didn’t have to think about where to turn, she could listen to thoughts and be ready for any attacks.

  “Keep going,” came Matt’s voice in his ear. Sarah had a similar device in her own ear and could hear Matt as well. “There’s a door about ten meters ahead that leads into a more secure area. No guards, but Harris’s key should let you in without a problem.”

  “I see it,” Jim replied. He swiped the key, and sure enough, the door hummed and swung o
pen. “We’re in.”

  “Okay,” said Matt. “Next up are three doors, two on the right, one on the left. The two on the right are a lab and an office; try not to attract attention. The one on the left takes you into the main, uh, holding area. The key will probably get you in there too, but there’ll be a bunch of scientists and guards.”

  Jim and Sarah exchanged glances. “So we keep bluffing until we can make our move. I’ll find the ones we can trust and give you a signal.”

  He nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Sarah refastened his fake manacles, and they repeated the bluff. The fabrication held. The guards were attentive but obedient to the orders of the scientists, and the scientists all appeared fascinated at the thought of, quite literally, picking the brain of the infamous James Raynor. But Raynor knew that for some of them, the macabre interest was as false as his bindings. Sarah’s gaze flickered to Jim’s for just an instant as she acknowledged the third scientist, then she gave the man a tight, faint smile. That, then, was the signal. She repeated it once more. Out of the eight or so scientists present, only two, apparently, had enough human compassion in them to secretly despise what they were doing. There was an Asian male and a blonde woman. And that was it. Jim hoped they would uncover more.

  There was a question about the key; Sarah stared the man down. She and Jim were accompanied by three other scientists through a heavily locked door and into another world.

  Jim didn’t bother to hide his shock at what he saw. It made the ruse more convincing, and besides, it was what he genuinely felt. Human beings, merely ordinary people according to the documentation they’d intercepted, sat, squatted, or lay in various positions. Some had had their brains affected, judging by the ugly scars on their shaven skulls. Others had pieces of who knew what grafted onto parts of their bodies. There was an odd, probably unnoticed compassion on display; the “subjects” were permitted clothing, which they almost universally used to hide their physical deformities. Jim barely kept his anger in check as a child, probably about ten years old, stood unmoving with his back to the newcomers. The scar on his bald skull was still new and ugly.

  Their scientist guide, a heavyset, tall man with tanned skin and dark hair going stylishly gray at the temples, was saying something horrific about “adjusting and adapting on a genetic level” when Sarah’s gaze met Jim’s.

  He roared, “shattering” the cuffs and diving for the other man. The guide stared up at Jim as he charged, all his smug, sick superiority gone as the outlaw James Raynor descended upon him. Jim didn’t pull his punch, slamming it into the perfectly square jaw and dropping the bigger man to the floor. He fell at an angle that looked like it would be very uncomfortable. Jim wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead, and he didn’t really care. Not this time. He grabbed the key from the scientist’s lab coat pocket and began to unlock the doors.

  At the same instant, Sarah sprang for the other male, whose pale blue eyes widened with shock. With casual efficiency Sarah kicked his throat, crushing his windpipe.

  Sarah whirled and grabbed the woman. The scientist inhaled breath to scream, but Sarah silenced her with a strong hand over her mouth. “We’re here to get you out, if you want to go. Do you?”

  Relief and something like joy filled the woman’s eyes and she nodded vigorously. Sarah let her hand drop.

  “Then help us. There are others who think like you. Dr. Phan, for one. Do you know of others?”

  “I—I think so. We don’t really talk about it. You understand why.”

  Sarah’s face was beautiful and terrible in its anger, Jim thought as he glanced over, listening to the exchange as he released the inmates. “I do understand. Contact them. There will be dropships waiting starting in about ten minutes at landing area 4. Get these people out and take them to safety.” She handed the woman a pistol. “Take this. You’ll need it. And hurry. This whole place is going to blow soon.”

  The doctor gingerly took the gun, then moved beside Jim to assist him in opening doors. Some of the prisoners understood what was going on and were eager to escape; others looked frightened and cowered back.

  “Okay, Matt, we’re in, and we’ve got an ally, a doctor—?”

  “Elizabeth Martin,” the woman answered.

  “Elizabeth Martin,” Jim said. “She’s going to take over this cell block and contact her allies.”

  “Roger that,” Matt said. “Now, let’s get you to the next section.”

  Jim turned to Sarah, finding her kneeling over the scientist Jim had coldcocked. She inserted the bomb into the coat pocket, then rose and turned to Jim. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  There had been four holding areas in all. By the time Jim and Sarah made it to the final dropship and raced aboard, forty-four experimental subjects had reached freedom, along with thirteen scientists who had passed Sarah’s inspection. Matt kept them on top of everything, alerting them when their cover had been blown and guiding them to hitherto unknown exits, twice just in the nick of time. Sarah planted a trail of bombs as they went, sometimes simply placing them on the floor. The more Jim saw, both of her and the station, of the scientists and the experiments, the more he understood. And the more he agreed with her decision. It had to end here, as much as it could end. There were other facilities, other scientists. But this particular branch of the horrendous tree of experimentation and torture would be cut off. Forever.

  Sarah had held something in her hand as she placed down the final bomb. Jim didn’t need to ask what it was. He knew. Instead, he asked, “How long?”

  “Five minutes,” she said.

  “Man, you sure like to cut it close, darlin’.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  And they had. Barely. The last dropship, bearing them, four scientists, and six inmates, was still climbing upward when the station exploded. The explosives went off in a little chain of destruction, from the first one placed on Dr. Harris’s body to the last one plunked hastily down on a table, a series of nearly blinding flashes of billowing orange flames. Twenty seconds after the first one had detonated, all that was left was the black skeleton of the building and the hungrily licking flames.

  Sarah was watching intently, her eyes fastened on the scene. Jim had expected to see righteous anger, or joy. Instead he saw something there he’d not seen from her before. Sarah Kerrigan wore an expression of tranquility. She had done what was necessary and had no regrets.

  The words came completely unexpectedly. “Sarah? How about you come get a real drink with me once we get back?”

  2504

  Once Matt had edged through the entrance, turning himself sideways in order to do so, he emerged into a slightly more open area, dimly lit only by what light emerged from the entry-way. In stark contrast to the random “construction” of the environment outside, this place had obviously been deliberately structured of plascrete. It looked like a small den. Valerian blocked the light for a moment, then stood beside Horner. This little antechamber appeared to be . . . it. But both men knew better.

  “Start checking for a door,” Matt said. Valerian began examining the walls. Horner squatted and patted the floor gently, his fingers searching for the slight groove that would indicate the presence of a door.

  There was a clanking sound, and he jumped quickly to his feet as light outlined a square on the plascrete floor. The square slid back, and four men, all wearing Mira’s merc symbol and pointing very large guns at them, popped out.

  Valerian and Horner put their hands up at once. “Matt Horner and Mr. V,” he said at once.

  The weapons were lowered as they were recognized. “Damn, kid,” one of the men said, “didn’t Boss Lady give you the signal?”

  Valerian looked archly at Matt, who shook his head. Damn the woman. She was the epitome of smart business sense and practicality, except around him, where she suddenly became all—how to put it—impish and playful. “No,” he said heavily, “she didn’t.”

  “Well, we’ve been expecting you, so come on down.�
�� As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone. Horner and Valerian followed them down a decidedly low-tech ladder and emerged in a high-tech world.

  “I’m Gary Crane,” said one of the men who had drawn on them not two minutes earlier. He was tall, gangly, with lank black hair. His eyes were surrounded by crow’s-feet, their color difficult to distinguish in the artificial light. “I’m supposed to show you around a little and take you to the private communication room.”

  Even an Heir Apparent on the run and Mira’s “husband,” it would seem, necessitated guards. Horner didn’t object. It was most certainly SOP, and as long as Valerian got to do what he came here to do, he was fine with obeying protocol. “This is the nerve center of Mira’s operation,” Crane said, indicating the walls covered with blinking lights, buttons, switches, and visual displays.

  “A bit risky, putting everything in one place,” Valerian commented.

  “Not as much as you’d think,” Crane said. “Everything has a redundancy. If this place ever got hit or taken over, she could do everything she needed to do elsewhere. It’s just convenient to have one spot for it all.” He gave them a grin. “Besides, if you’d been bad guys and we hadn’t succeeded in blowing you away right at first, you’d have been dispatched in seconds by all the security shit down here.”

  “I believe that,” Matt said.

  “Come on, follow me. We’re all set up for you.” He led them through the main area to one of six side doors. This room was completely devoid of anything resembling comforts. It was, in fact, completely devoid of anything save a lone console in the center of the room.

  “Press this button here. It’ll generate a random code. Enter that code here,” he said, pointing to various places on the console. “It’ll open a secure channel to anyone you want. You’ll have six minutes to talk before the clear channel rescrambles itself. After that, you’ll have to wait another forty-seven minutes for a second attempt.”

  “Understood,” Valerian replied. “I’ll be succinct.” He looked pointedly at Crane, who looked back at him blankly for a moment, then said, “Oh, right. I’ll be outside.”