StarCraft

by Timothy Zahn

  Was it more of the same pattern that had governed her entire life? Was she really so valuable to the ghosts that she’d been continually saved for something special?

  Or was she more like a piece of fine crystal, a goblet too valuable to simply throw away but too delicate to drink from lest it shatter?

  Did the ghosts think she was useless? Did everyone in the military think she was useless?

  Was she useless?

  “Thank you, Emperor Valerian,” she said, bowing to him. “I would be honored to join the team.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Caulfield,” Valerian said. “The rest of your team is assembling in the amidships hangar deck. Do you know where that is?”

  “I can find it, Emperor, thank you,” Tanya said. “Come on, Ulavu.”

  And if she was very, very lucky, Tanya thought as she and Ulavu headed down the passageway, they would find that Zagara had lied about everything being safe down there. Maybe then Tanya would finally find out what she could do, in real combat against real enemies.

  Even if her part was only to die in service to the Dominion.

  You and I against the world, Tanya Caulfield? Ulavu asked.

  Tanya had to smile. Yes, she agreed. You and I against the world.

  Because for once, it could almost literally be true.

  —

  “Let me get this straight,” Whist said, eyeing the dropship and the techs busily prepping it for flight. “We get a single dropship. They get a protoss shuttle with full phoenix escort.”

  “Privileges of rank,” Colonel Cruikshank said sourly. “So-called. Personally, I’d take a Dominion dropship any day over riding a robot-controlled box with a bunch of trigger-happy protoss on my tail.”

  “Mm,” Whist said noncommittally. Given the mission, he would choose a protoss shuttle and escort in a heartbeat.

  But he knew better than to say so. Cruikshank’s biases against protoss were well known, and it was never a good idea to deliberately annoy your mission commander.

  Still, Cruikshank was right about the rank thing. Since the protoss had the best space-to-ground transports, Hierarch Artanis had offered to fly over from his mothership and pick up Emperor Valerian and his guard, after which the two leaders would make their joint way down to the planet and Zagara’s conference building. The hierarch was standing outside the shuttle, waiting for his guest like a good host, eight other protoss at his side.

  Whist had been a marine for a long, long time, with all the bitter and violent experience and memories that came with that history. But even so, the sight of Artanis and his escort sent a shiver up his back. These weren’t just fellow soldiers, but representatives of an ancient, powerful, utterly alien race. Everything about Artanis, from his stance to his armor to the quiet but palpable vigilance of his guards, screamed that.

  His guards. It was a little hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like four of them were standard Aiur high templar and the other four were some of the formerly renegade Nerazim, the so-called dark templar.

  Whist had heard that Artanis was trying to bring the two factions back together. It looked like he was making progress, which was probably good news all around. Getting caught in the middle of protoss tribal disputes was generally a very unhealthy thing to do.

  Of course, if the next military action turned out to be between the protoss and the terrans, Artanis’s reconciliation program would mean less chance for the Dominion to turn the various protoss groups against one another.

  Whist shook his head. Like the old saying said, every silver lining had a cloud.

  Across the hangar, one of the hatches opened and Emperor Valerian appeared, dressed in full-press court finery, walking within a phalanx of four personal bodyguards and four combat-suited marines.

  Whist studied the man as he strode toward the protoss shuttle, wondering what was under all those trappings. There’d been plenty of hype about how different Valerian was from his father, but so far Whist hadn’t seen a lot of changes.

  Of course, Whist was in the marines. Changes always percolated more slowly through military hierarchies than they did through the civilian ranks. More significantly, perhaps, Valerian hadn’t had a war to run for a few years. In Whist’s experience, war was what brought out either the best or the worst in a leader.

  Maybe today would be the day that Valerian proved himself. One way or the other.

  Admiral Horner was walking beside the emperor, the two of them in quiet conversation. The group headed toward the shuttle, Artanis and his guards turning to face the approaching terrans—

  “So this is our bus?”

  Whist turned. Four people had entered the hangar from another hatchway and were walking toward him and Cruikshank. One was Whist’s erstwhile rooftop drinking buddy, Lieutenant Dizz Halkman. The second was a woman striding along in a ghost skinsuit, her hood thrown back over her shoulders, a combination visor/air-supply system tucked under one arm and a C-10 canister rifle slung over her back.

  Whist grimaced. A ghost. Great.

  Walking close beside the ghost was a protoss, dressed in a civilian-type outfit of a long tunic, heavy-duty leg wraps, and thick, elbow-length gardening-style gloves.

  The nerve cords attached to the back of his skull had been cut short, sparking a brief flicker of combined nostalgia and annoyance. During the war, shortened cords had been a sure indicator that the protoss facing you was a dark templar. Now, with whatever was going on with Artanis’s reorganization of protoss society, all the aliens had cut their cords that way.

  Which was a genuine pity. Protoss looked enough alike that anything that helped a marine distinguish one from another was a bonus.

  And finally, bringing up the rear was someone in a marine CMC-400 combat suit, clunking awkwardly along like he’d never worn it before.

  “That is indeed your bus, Lieutenant,” Cruikshank confirmed. “Sergeant Cray, this is your commanding officer, Lieutenant Halkman—”

  “We’ve met,” Dizz said, nodding to Whist. “How you doing, Whist?”

  “Pretty good, Dizz,” Whist replied. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Cruikshank seemed surprised, and not happy, at the lack of proper rank respect going on here. Not just between Whist and Dizz, but also between Dizz and Cruikshank himself.

  Whist suppressed a smile. Irritating ranking officers was a favorite pastime in the marines. Apparently, the Reaper Corps had its own version of the game. “So are the five of us the whole team?” he asked.

  “So I gather,” Dizz said. “This is Tanya Caulfield, ghost. That’s Ulavu, technical adviser—”

  “Technical adviser on what?”

  “On whatever we need advising for, I guess,” Dizz said. “The colonel here was a bit fuzzy on that. And this is our armored newbie, Dr. Erin Wyland, xenobiologist.”

  Whist wrinkled his nose. A ghost, a protoss, a civilian science type, and a felon in a reaper jump pack. And a lone marine to ride herd on them. This just got better and better. “Dr. Wyland’s another adviser, I gather?”

  “Well, she’s sure not here to show us any dance moves,” Dizz said, cocking his head as he ran a critical eye up and down her. “Though for her first day in armor, she’s doing pretty well.”

  “Try my second hour in armor,” the woman’s muffled voice came.

  “Outside speaker, Erin,” Dizz called. “Switch inside your left gauntlet—lower right.”

  There was a pause. The armor teetered a moment—

  “I said it was only my second hour in this thing,” Erin said, her voice now much clearer.

  Whist cocked an eyebrow, his opinion of her going up a notch or two. Most of the xenobiologists he’d run into over the years had been humorless stuffed shirts. This girl at least had spirit.

  “In that case, you’re doing great,” Dizz assured her. “They told me my armor and jump pack were already inside?”

  “Not yet,” Whist said. “Neither is mine. Got a rack of C-14s and P-45s and plenty of replacement mags, tho
ugh, so at least we’ve got firepower. Full set of grenades, too.”

  “What, no flamethrowers or nukes?”

  “Actually, there is a Perdition junior flamethrower,” Whist said. “But yes, no nukes.”

  “Maybe they’re with our armor.” Dizz raised his eyebrows at Cruikshank. “The armor is on its way, right?”

  “Just waiting on the tech guys,” Cruikshank assured him. “They’ve got a new gadget they wanted to install.”

  Whist felt his lip twist. Like Dominion combat suits didn’t have enough gear crammed into them already. “I hope it’s at least something useful.”

  “Well, they think it is,” Cruikshank said, his eyes steady on Ulavu. “It’s called a psi block, based off the UED’s sigma-radiation-driven psi disruptors. Along with the original function of slowing zerg movement and reaction, this adaptation is supposed to disrupt local communications. The theory is that’ll make it harder for them to coordinate attacks and send out any alerts about your presence.”

  “Okay, that could be useful,” Dizz acknowledged. “I assume they’ve been tested?”

  “On what?” Cruikshank countered. “We haven’t had zerg around to fight for six years. I seriously doubt anyone’s gone out hunting for test subjects.”

  It seemed to Whist that Tanya’s lip might have twitched at that. “So we’re the field test?” Dizz asked.

  “Basically.” Cruikshank nodded past Whist’s shoulder. “There they are.”

  Whist turned. Two techs were trundling toward them with a rolling cart on which a CMC-400 and a reaper light-infantry getup were stacked.

  “Go on, get aboard,” Cruikshank said. “I’ll make sure your armor is stowed, then call Control for clearance.”

  “I like to make sure myself that my armor is stowed,” Dizz said.

  “And what a great world it would be if we all got everything we wanted,” Cruikshank said, jerking his head toward the dropship. “You’re on the clock, Lieutenant. Get your sorry butt aboard and start your preflight.”

  For a second Whist thought Dizz was going to argue the point. But the reaper just shrugged. “You heard the man,” he added over his shoulder as he headed toward the dropship. “Everyone mount up. Erin, you’ll need to unsuit. I’ll give you a hand if you need it.”

  “Why does she need to unsuit?” Whist asked.

  “Because I’m flying, I’m unsuited, and I don’t want a rookie in powered armor at my back,” Dizz said.

  Cruikshank muttered something under his breath. “Lieutenant—”

  “That’s all right, Colonel,” Erin said quickly. “I can use the practice anyway.”

  “Fine,” Cruikshank growled. “Get going.”

  The scientist, the ghost, and the protoss headed off after Dizz. Whist let them get a few steps away, then moved closer to Cruikshank. “So this is really it, sir?” he murmured. “Five of us is the whole damn team?”

  “Turns out you and Halkman are the only ones aboard with forest and jungle combat experience,” Cruikshank murmured back. “Besides, this isn’t supposed to be a combat mission.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Whist growled.

  “Well, this time they say you can believe it,” Cruikshank said. “But watch yourselves.” He nodded toward Dizz as he disappeared into the dropship. “And watch him, too.”

  Whist looked at the empty dropship hatchway. “Any reason in particular?”

  “He’s a reaper,” Cruikshank said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not if you know something else about him,” Whist said. “What crime he was tossed into the reapers for, maybe?”

  Cruikshank snorted. “Look, Sarge, I don’t even know his real name. Most of them get new ones when they go in, precisely so jarbrains like you don’t waste time sniffing around. I mean, come on—a reaper with a name like Halkman? Right.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” Whist said. “So why is he in command again?”

  “Because he’s the ranking officer.” Cruikshank raised his eyebrows. “And don’t forget that, either.”

  “Hey, Whist—you coming?” Dizz’s voice echoed out through the dropship’s hatch. “ ’Cause if you aren’t, I’m calling dibs on your CMC.”

  “Good luck starting it,” Whist called. He gave Cruikshank a final brisk nod before resuming his walk toward the dropship.

  “Never assume, Sergeant,” Dizz called back. “Come on, move your butt.”

  Whist frowned. So was Dizz saying he could start someone else’s locked-down armor? Did that mean he’d been a vehicle thief or a lock breaker?

  He paused at the door as a sudden thought struck him. “Colonel, you said these psi blocks disrupt zerg communications. What’s it going to do to Ulavu?”

  “I don’t know,” Cruikshank said. “And frankly, I don’t care.”

  Whist nodded. “Got it.”

  This was going to be fun, all right. Absolutely.

  —

  The greeting protocol for a face-to-face with the protoss hierarch was complicated but reasonably straightforward. Valerian made it through without stumbling, and from the tone of Artanis’s responses, he gathered he’d gotten it correct. Or at least close enough that the protoss was satisfied.

  Then again, maybe everyone simply had more important matters on their minds than etiquette.

  “You’re clear on things up here?” Valerian murmured to Matt as the protoss warriors and marines began filing into the shuttle.

  “Very clear,” Matt assured him. “First sign of trouble, we drop a full screen of vikings and banshees to cover your withdrawal.”

  “Assuming Artanis agrees to leave.”

  “I don’t think there’s any question that he’ll be ready to bug out whenever you are,” Matt said grimly. “He trusts Zagara even less than you do.”

  “Who said I trusted her at all?”

  Matt shrugged slightly, his gaze shifting over Valerian’s shoulder. “Them, maybe,” he said. “Or at least her.”

  Frowning, Valerian turned. The marine—Sergeant Cray—was just disappearing into the dropship as Cruikshank gestured loading orders to the techs with the marine and reaper armor. “Which her? Dr. Wyland?”

  “I was thinking more of Tanya Caulfield,” Matt said. “I was just noticing that you’re sending one of the ghosts’ most secret weapons straight into Zagara’s hands.”

  “Not exactly straight,” Valerian corrected. “You have a point?”

  “My point is that if Zagara takes Caulfield alive—or even freshly dead—she and the zerg will have a brand-new chunk of terran genetics to play with,” Matt said grimly. “We saw what they did with Kerrigan. And hydralisks with poisoned needle spines are bad enough. Imagine one that could create fire, too.”

  “Understood,” Valerian said. “Understand in turn that with this much Dominion and protoss firepower arrayed against her, Zagara would be hard-pressed to escape if shooting started. Grabbing Caulfield would gain her nothing except to give the lie to her stated desire for peace.” He turned back, to find that Matt was staring at him. “What?”

  “Are you saying you’re setting her up as bait?” Matt asked, sounding dumbfounded. “Valerian, that’s—” He broke off.

  “That’s what?” Valerian demanded. “Strategically risky? Tactically unsound?”

  “Something your father would have done,” Matt said bluntly. “Using people for his own ends.”

  Valerian snorted. “Wake up, Matt. Using people is something military and political people like us do every day.”

  “In order to achieve victory,” Matt countered. “We send some to their deaths so that others will live. But not this way. Not as bait. Not a—”

  “Not a young and inexperienced woman?”

  Matt’s lips compressed. “Fine. Not a young and inexperienced woman. Especially not one who could be a vital military asset to the enemy.”

  Valerian sighed. “Look below you, Matt. Look at what the zerg have accomplished. If this is a trick—if they’re preparing for
another all-out war—they could roll over every planet in the sector with nothing to stop them. If Zagara is planning treachery, our only hope is to find out about it while the Swarm is still more or less localized.”

  “I know,” Matt said quietly. “But there has to be another way.”

  “There isn’t,” Valerian said. “But now flip the situation over. The Dominion is vulnerable right now, with food and refugee issues. The protoss have their own vulnerabilities. Yet Zagara hasn’t launched an attack on either of us. More than that, she’s holding out the hope of helping us solve some of our problems. Add together the current risk and the future hope—and the fact that Caulfield is flanked by a tough pair of war veterans—and I think it’s a chance worth taking.”

  “Emperor Valerian?”

  Valerian turned to the shuttle. The last of his bodyguards was standing at the hatchway with one of the dark templar across from him, both waiting for their leaders to board. “Keep an eye on things, Matt,” Valerian said, touching his friend on his shoulder. He then strode toward the protoss ship.

  “I will,” Matt called after him.

  His arguments were sound, Valerian knew. The strategy was risky, but necessary.

  And it wasn’t the kind of coldhearted move his father, Arcturus, would have made. Not at all.

  From high orbit, Valerian noted, the planet’s new landscape had looked incredible. Skimming along the surface at barely a thousand meters above the ground, it looked utterly impossible.

  It wasn’t just the colors and greenery. It was the sheer range and variation involved. He’d seen plenty of ecosystems in his years as an archaeologist, and Gystt ranked up there with the most vibrant of them. Only in a handful of places could he still see the blackened scars left by the protoss incineration over a decade ago, and even those were in the process of being overwritten.

  It was a far cry from the complete devastation of Chau Sara and the other planets that had been incinerated during the war. There, some sparse flora had started to return, but it was nothing like the aggressive plant life here.

  Perhaps a bit too aggressive? Zagara had suggested that the zerg technique could be used to revitalize damaged terran cropland. But Valerian had seen what could happen when non-native plants and animals were introduced into an unprepared ecosystem. Generating enough wheat and corn to feed the Dominion would be a hollow victory if the rest of the plant life was devastated in the process.