Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  “Thank you.” When the door had closed behind Crane, the grainy, jumpy viewscreen flickered wildly for a moment, then stabilized into the face of a distinguished-looking older man. He had the upright and commanding presence of a military officer from a bygone era, right down to the snowy hair, walrus mustache, and small tuft on the chin. His eyes, sharp even in the poor-quality hologram, fixed on Valerian for a moment. They narrowed, then suddenly the bushy eyebrows shot upward.

  “Prince Valerian?” asked Dr. Emil Narud.

  The Heir Apparent chuckled and executed a formal bow. “The same,” he said. “Though a trifle rumpled, I fear.”

  “That’s . . . putting it mildly. But you could look like the very Devil himself, as long as you are safe. I’ve gotten word of a battle that pitted Dominion ship against Dominion ship. It wasn’t difficult to surmise what had happened. Your father . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” Valerian said, sobering. “He disapproved of my decision, as you can imagine. The White Star took a great deal of damage. We left before we knew what the final result of the battle was. I’m sure that if he’s alive and well, he’ll start hunting us again.”

  Narud’s expression, already pleased and relieved, showed even more pleasure. “By ‘we,’ I assume . . . ”

  “Yes. We were successful. Sarah Kerrigan is alive and largely free from the infestation.”

  “ ‘Largely’?”

  “Well . . . you’ll understand once you get here. Obviously I can’t come to the major Moebius base now. Father will be observing it. You’re going to have to come to us. There seem to be a few aspects of her, genetically speaking, that have not completely transformed. I am hopeful you will be able to assist us with that. And,” Valerian added, “she’s not doing very well. We need to get her to our backup base, and quickly, or I’m afraid we’ll lose her.”

  The conviviality disappeared. Narud suddenly became all business. “That must not be allowed to happen. Of course, I shall come to you immediately. Where are you now?”

  “At a scenic little spot called Deadman’s Port.”

  Narud grimaced. “No wonder you are in disguise. You’re assuming a terrible risk with her by taking her there.”

  “One and a half minutes,” said Horner.

  Valerian nodded acknowledgment. “I agree. Once you arrive, we’re going to get out of here as fast as we can. I’m going to have to go shortly. The channel will rescramble, and I’m not sure we’ll have another chance to speak.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Narud said. “You worry about keeping the Queen of Blades as safe and stable as possible. And saving your own skin while you are doing it.”

  “We’ll do our best. Make sure your facility is ready for us.”

  “We’ve been ready since you first contacted me, Valerian. Do be safe. Don’t . . . you . . . moment of . . . ”

  The hologram sputtered, then froze, then blinked out of existence.

  “He seemed to talk pretty familiarly to you,” Horner commented. Valerian rubbed his eyes, then grunted as he remembered how dirty his fingers were. His eyes reddened and teared slightly from the grime as he spoke.

  “Dr. Emil Narud is an absolute genius,” he said. “I understand that when it comes to science, for all that I’ve studied and learned, I’m a mere child sitting at his feet. If anyone can help Sarah Kerrigan close the gap between what she is and what she was, it’s him. And now,” he said, “to take another scenic stroll through the trendy downtown of Deadman’s Port.”

  * * *

  “They there?”

  “They are. Raynor’s not, though.”

  “No, he’s with Kerrigan, I’m sure of it. Are you and your men set up to move when I tell you to?”

  “We are.”

  “His Excellency will be very grateful indeed. I’m certain that the little fief that Mira commands will pale in comparison to what you’ll be given.”

  “It better. Whatever a ‘fief’ is.”

  A chuckle. “Whatever you do, do not act precipitously. All will be lost. Wait for my word. But once things happen—they’ll happen very fast.”

  “That sounds just about right.”

  “Hey, Coop! What’s going to happen fast?” Annabelle was grinning beneath her cap, her eyes bright and happy. Standing next to her was Travis Rawlins, from the Bucephalus.

  Cooper smiled at them, ending the conversation at once. “Couple of people wanted their beers poured and ready for them when they got off shift,” he said. “Told ’em I might not be able to do that, but it’d happen pretty fast once they got here. Now”—and he leaned forward, looking from one cheerful face to the other—“what can I get you two?”

  * * *

  Crane was waiting outside. He had one hand resting casually on the pistol at his hip, the other pressed to his ear. His lips were moving as Valerian and Matt came out, clearly finishing reporting in. He turned to them and nodded. “Checking in with the boss. Ready to head back?”

  “More than ready,” said Valerian. They followed Crane back through the main area. Matt glanced at some of the equipment as they passed and shook his head.

  “You know . . . I knew she had connections, but I confess—I really didn’t think that Mira was that big a fish here.”

  “Judging by what we’ve seen thus far, I would say she’s the biggest fish,” Valerian amended. “We are, all of us, accustomed to looking over our shoulders. I think probably she does it more often, and with more reason, than we do.”

  “Mira’s a good leader,” Crane said. “Treats her people fairly. Anyone tries to mess with her, they’ll have to deal with all of us.”

  Matt nodded. He was glad to hear it. As they ascended the ladder to the surface, his mind was still on the contradictions and complexities that were Mira Han. And he hoped, sincerely, that her harboring of him, Raynor, Valerian, and Kerrigan would not turn out to be a generous gesture she would later regret.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  2500

  The bar, Sam’s Place, was middle-of-the-road. Not too tame, not too wild, not too dark or too bright. Jim wanted Sarah to feel comfortable, but he also wanted to show her something real, not some sanitized version of what a watering hole was like. He’d visited here before, and had a good relationship with Sam and the barkeepers. It wasn’t Wicked Wayne’s, the bar he and Tychus had patronized so much the place felt like home, but he’d moved way beyond that. Jim didn’t need gyrating naked women and loud music any longer. He wanted decent conversation when he felt like talking and an icy cold beer to sip in peace when he didn’t. Sam’s Place offered both.

  He tried not to keep checking his chrono and failed, tried not to keep looking back at the door and failed at that too. She was late. Maybe she’d decided not to come. Disappointment knifed through him at the thought, but he didn’t suppose he could blame her. It was a completely new situation for her. The whole . . . relationship . . . thing . . . he didn’t rightly know what to call it—that was new for her too. He was just reaching to put some creds on the counter and head out when he sensed her behind him. He turned, casually, so she wouldn’t know how pleased he was she had decided to come, and prepared some smart-ass, cool comment with which to greet her.

  What came out was a stunned, “You look . . . amazing.”

  Standing before him was indeed Sarah Kerrigan, but most definitely not the Kerrigan he knew. He knew the ghost, whose body was wrapped head to toe in a special formfitting suit that enabled her to appear and disappear at will. He knew the assassin who turned killing into a dance, even if she had many partners in that grim waltz. He knew the soldier who, even if she questioned orders, obeyed and gave her utmost.

  He had never before met the woman.

  Sarah had found a dress—God knew how—that fitted as if it had been designed for her. It wasn’t a drop-dead gorgeous thing, nor was it skimpy and alluring. It was simple, a plain green sundress with a calf-length skirt and a halter top. It showed off the pale, sculpted shoulders, strong with muscle but
still feminine and lightly dusted with freckles. For the first time since he’d met her, her long red hair was not in its customary ponytail but flowed loose around those sculpted shoulders in all its fiery glory. A small butterfly pin secured a lock of hair behind her ear. Her chest was covered, but there was a hint of cleavage. Surprisingly delicate feet were encased in light, strappy sandals, and she shifted her weight from one to the other nervously.

  Sarah Kerrigan. Nervous.

  “Thanks,” she said, giving him a fleeting smile. “I . . . hope this was the right thing to wear. Someone loaned it to me.”

  “Perfect, darlin’,” he said, rising and pulling out a chair for her like his father had taught him to do. He realized once again that she had an astoundingly flawless figure. Was there anything about her that wasn’t perfect?

  “Plenty of things,” she said, then looked chagrined. “Damn. Sorry about that. Been trying not to—you know.”

  “Honey, as long as you don’t call me a pig again, you can read whatever you want. I want to be an open book for you.” The words just came, and he realized he meant them. She did too, and her posture relaxed, and her smile became more genuine. He realized that her mouth was just a little too wide for her face and wondered what it would be like to kiss it. To his astonishment, she blushed and looked down, her hair falling in her face. He reached out and covered her hand with his own.

  “Now, what can I get you to drink?”

  She gave a little shrug of those elegant, strong shoulders. “I have no idea. I don’t drink except when Arcturus hands me something.”

  “Let’s start you off with a nice cold beer on this hot day,” Jim said. “And we’ll go from there. Oh, and try these,” he added, pointing to some snacks of fried—somethings. “They’re delicious.”

  2504

  “I have it on good authority that the food here is prepared by a better chef than on the Hyperion,” Jim said, completely deadpan. He pointed to the noodles and sauce on the plate he set down before her. “Try this. It’s delicious.”

  She eyed him. “You’re a lot of things, Jim Raynor, but a chef isn’t among them. And I recall you saying that about something before. I probably shouldn’t trust your culinary judgment.” She had hated the fried somethings.

  He smiled, pleased that she remembered. Maybe she, too, was recalling the good moments of their past. There hadn’t been many—they hadn’t had time to make many good memories—but they were unspeakably precious to him. It seemed she, too, valued them.

  “Well, maybe,” he allowed, giving her an aw-shucks grin. “But you can’t argue that it wasn’t prepared with more care than even on the Bucephalus.”

  “Well, that’s true.” She peered cautiously at the food, and gave him a look equal parts bemusement and revulsion.

  “Oh, come on now, they’re rations, and I know you’ve had them before!” he protested, feigning insult. Then, relenting, he said, “Yeah, it’s pretty terrible, but it’s the best I could rustle up here. But wait until we get back on the Bucephalus. I figure if the food there is good enough for Valerian, it’s probably pretty damn good, considering how snooty he is about what he drinks.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Sarah’s smile, faint to begin with, faded completely. Nonetheless, she struggled to sit. He was there to help her, his hands under her arms, easing her up. Once they had been strong with muscle. Now it seemed they were simply thin and soft, and he felt another by-now familiar twinge. She had to get help, real help, and soon.

  “There you go,” he said. Sarah made no effort to eat and simply stared at the food. She pushed the admittedly unappealing glop around listlessly. He watched her for about five minutes in silence, then said, “Darlin’? It ain’t prime rib, but you got to eat.”

  She shrugged and then, like a sullen child, put a forkful of food in her mouth.

  Jim wrestled with frustration and fear. He was able to choke it down for about another two minutes, then it burst out of him.

  “Sarah, you’re about as far from a stupid person as it’s possible to get. But I gotta tell you, you’re sitting here doing some mighty stupid things. You know you gotta eat. And yet you’re just shoving this food around on your plate. You know you gotta talk to someone at some point about what happened, or else it’s going to blow you wide open. You can’t starve yourself and keep what happened to you all bottled up. Now, I get that you ain’t the type to want to sit down with a head doctor, but I would have thought that after all we’ve been through together, you could feel that I was someone you could talk to. You did once.”

  She didn’t respond at first, merely continued to sit with her eyes downcast. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit to see her like this, so listless and uncaring—she who had been all fire and passion, tamped down and controlled perhaps, but—

  —Sarah—

  She reached and squeezed his hand, tightly. He squeezed back. Almost at once, she let go, pushed her food away, then lay back down. She curled up into a tight ball, facing away from him.

  “Sarah?”

  “I’m not hungry, Jim. Just go. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  Jim knew that couldn’t be good. He knew what she would be thinking. And he felt a stab of guilt, knowing that by mentioning their date, he had led her to that place. He couldn’t reach her, couldn’t help her. It was like reaching out to someone who was about to fall. She had to hold on to his hand if he was going to be able to pull her back from that edge, and she just didn’t seem to be able to.

  Or maybe she didn’t seem to be willing to.

  He buried his face in his hands for a long moment, hoping against hope she’d turn around and say something. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the sick bay equipment and the soft, almost imperceptible drip of fluids from the IVs.

  He said nothing as he rose and went out. He didn’t know where he was going, and didn’t really care. He simply let his feet carry him through the vast mansion that had once belonged to Scutter O’Banon and now belonged to a pink-haired imp. He wandered its corridors, fists balled in his pockets, head down, seeing nothing of the once-beautiful home. He didn’t even see Tychus.

  He saw only Sarah, lying in his arms, her skin so pale it almost glowed in the dim light . . . .

  2500

  They had talked and had beers and laughed and eaten, and when the hour grew late, and Sarah finished the last of her beer and said, “What now?”, Jim had not been afraid to simply extend his hand silently.

  She had not gotten drunk. He couldn’t imagine Sarah Kerrigan ever allowing herself to let go enough to be drunk. But she had permitted the alcohol to relax her, had imbibed enough so that both cheeks and eyes had a glow to them that Jim had never seen before, and she had given him the gift of her laughter—musical, throaty, more genuine than any other woman’s laugh had ever been except for Liddy’s.

  Liddy, I loved you. Always will. Stayed true to you till you breathed your last breath, and afterward too. But you’re gone, my baby. And I know you’d understand and want me to be happy. And . . . I think I can be.

  He felt something inside him loosen as the thought formed, felt himself put down a burden he hadn’t even realized he’d made himself carry. His heart was suddenly light, and he realized it was true. Jim Raynor was happy in this moment, with this woman, despite the horrors of war raging around them, despite the aliens who seemed to be always on their heels. He looked at Sarah, and he was happy.

  So he reached out his hand. She gazed at it for a long moment, some of the simple delight fading as she pondered taking a step that would turn a pleasant evening into something else—what, neither of them knew. An ending? A beginning?

  And she slipped her strong hand into his.

  He did not call for lights in the small cabin that was his room. There were always dim safety lights on, so that in case of an emergency Jim could quickly find the door. Now they bathed the simple room in a gentle blue radiance as he closed the door, leaned Sarah against it, and bent to kiss her.


  It was gentle and soft and searching, this kiss that was their first. She was inexpert, shy, awkward—she, the epitome of precise movement and grace. He smiled against her mouth but kept kissing her, because quite simply, he didn’t want to stop.

  And she responded, hesitant at first, then with the growing passion he had known was there beneath the carefully controlled surface. Her arms slid about him and she arched up, no longer shy but hungry, yearning, as he was.

  He didn’t want it to be like this—rushed and wild. Not for their first time. And so he slowed her down, gently but firmly, making her understand that she could receive as well as give, teaching her that there was reward in patience.

  * * *

  It was she who interrupted the sweet silence afterward.

  “You don’t see it,” she said, so softly that he hardly caught the words. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

  “Don’t see what, darlin’?” he whispered back. Her head was on his broad chest, her ear pressed so she could hear his heart beat, her hair—so soft, like red silk—draped over them both. Her fingers trailed gently over his skin, tenderly, her passion spent for the moment, but still clearly wanting to feel connected to him. She didn’t move to look at him.

  She didn’t reply at once, then said, in that same almost inaudible tone, “The darkness. The darkness that’s . . . within me.”

  Her voice caught. He wanted to squeeze her tight, but refrained. She was like a wild animal, ready to bolt if he made the wrong move. She would shut down if he pushed too hard. He kept stroking her arm, sensing there was more, and after a moment she continued.

  “It . . . scares me, sometimes. It’s so strong. And so powerful.”

  “We all got light and darkness mixed up in us,” Jim said quietly. “I’ve done a lot of things some folks would call pretty damn dark. And I know you have too. But, honey, you got free will now. You chose to accept that date tonight. You chose—you chose me. And I swear to you by all that’s holy and a few things that ain’t, all I see in you right now is a light so strong and pure I can’t look away from it.”