by Jeff Grubb
Kerrigan snorted again. “Yeah, like who hasn’t?”
They were within sight of the command center, another standard-issue half sphere, a portable setup. This one glistened in the sun, though: the Zerg hadn’t corrupted it yet. Somehow that made Mike feel both better and worse at the same time.
Another call came in. This time Raynor was looking for reinforcements. Could Kerrigan send down the troops still with her?
“He says—” Mike began.
“Send them,” said Kerrigan.
“But you’ve got to—”
“I’ve got to get inside. And I can do that either with or without the support troops. They’re just extra targets. Send them off, and follow when you can.”
Mike relayed the orders, while Kerrigan put up the hood and helmet of her ghost suit. Mike watched her fasten the helmet, touch a device at her belt, and . . .
Vanish.
No, not quite vanish. There was a ripple around her, one that you could follow if you knew what to look for, and looked very hard. The guards at the front of the command center did not know what to look for, and were not looking hard enough. There was a burst of unseen canister fire, and the guards blew apart in a couple pieces each. Then an explosion at the main gates, which suddenly yawned wide. There was a silhouette among the smoke for a moment, a female figure with a large gun. Then she was gone, into the depths of the enemy command center.
Mike followed slowly, very much aware that he lacked the cloaking technology and psionic talent that made the telepathic ghosts possible. He paused briefly near the dead guards. They wore Alpha Squadron uniforms, but their bleeding heads were covered with helmets polarized in the Antigan sunlight. He decided not to remove the helmets: these might be people he knew. People who still owed him poker money.
Mike sneaked into the devastation of the command center.
It was easy to know where Kerrigan had gone; Mike just followed the path of broken and bleeding corpses. Men and women in full combat rig had been tossed around like rag dolls and now lay crumpled in pools of their own blood.
Michael Liberty thought briefly of Lieutenant Swallow and realized that he was now getting used to freshly dead bodies. Maybe he was growing the necessary emotional armor to survive in a universe at war.
He found Kerrigan’s canister rifle, rammed through the front plexishield of a toppled Goliath walker. From up ahead came the sounds of battle. Despite himself, he cradled his own gauss rifle and pressed forward.
And he was rewarded with the privilege of watching Sarah Kerrigan fight.
It was blood poetry, war ballet. She had reached the center of the command center now, armed with her knife and a slugthrower. She would wink into existence, slit a throat, then wink out again. Marines would rush to that location, and she would appear a few feet away, firing a burst point-blank into the helmet of her target. Then gone, then back again, this time with a spinning kick that roke the neck of a bellowing officer.
Mike brought his weapon up but found he could not fire. It was more than just a reluctance to take human life. He could not tell where she was at any one time. And through it all she moved with a cat-like grace and determination that shredded every opponent she encountered.
She was very good with knives. More important, she was like the Protoss—glorious and deadly.
He stood in the entrance for only a minute, but it was enough time for Kerrigan to dispatch every enemy in the command center. The only survivors were the ones who chose to flee at the outset.
Only then did Kerrigan come fully into view, sinking to her knees in exhaustion, her back to Liberty.
Mike walked up behind her and moved to put his hand on her shoulder.
His hand never reached her. Without hesitation, she spun in place, grabbed his outstretched wrist with one hand, and brought up her combat knife with the other.
Only when the tip of the knife was inches from Mike’s face did she freeze. Her face was a mask of rage. Fear flooded Mike’s mind, and in an instant he knew she was aware of that fear.
“Don’t. Do. That,” she said, biting off each word. Then she dropped her knife and put her face in both hands, “You’re afraid of me.”
Mike hesitated for a moment, then settled on “You betcha.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry you had to see this.”
Mike took a deep breath. “I just never visited you at work before. You rest for a moment. I’ve got to kick off a revolution.”
He shoved a broken body from the communications console, inserted the prerecorded disk, set the levels, and put out a general signal on all bands.
“This is Michael Liberty, broadcasting from Antiga Prime, with a report that the master command center for this world has been disabled by rebel forces. Repeat, the master command center has been disabled. The power of the Confederacy has been interrupted, and there is a strong possibility that it can be shattered entirely if the people of Antiga rise up to take control of their own destiny. The Confederate Marines in charge of the command center are either dead or in full retreat, while rebel losses have been . . .” He looked at Sarah Kerrigan, exhausted, weeping into her hands. “. . . been minimal. We have a message here from Arcturus Mengsk, leader of the Sons of Korhal. Please stand by.”
Mike popped the preprogrammed cartridge into the player and let the smooth, melodious tones of the terrorist leader rouse the people to action. Mike went back to Kerrigan, this time circling her so she knew he was coming.
Her eyes were dry now, but she was shuddering, her arms crossed in front of her, her reathing in short gasps.
“Its okay,” said Mike. “You got them all.”
“I know,” she said, looking at Mike. “I got them all. And as I killed each and every one of them, I knew what they were thinking. Fear. Panic. Hatred. Hopelessness. Breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“One of the techs had skipped breakfast, and he was really regretting not having had waffles.” Kerrigan gave a sniffling giggle. “He was about to have his throat slit, and he was worrying about waffles.” She put her hands along the sides of her head and ran her fingers through her red hair. “It sucks being a telepath.”
“I’ll bet,” said Mike, aware that the fear was still with him. The fear that Kerrigan could cut open his belly before he could even react. And that she knew he was thinking that.
“I know you’re afraid,” said Kerrigan. “And you can admit it. That makes you smarter than most. God, what I went through to become this, what the Confederates did to me. Do you know?”
“I know that the Confederacy has a lot of deep holes to hide their secrets in. Deeper and blacker than I ever imagined. Ghost training was for an elite group of carefully controlled telepaths . . .”
Kerrigan was nodding as he spoke. “Controlled through drugs and threats and brutality, until they owned you body and soul. They are no better than these Zerg creatures, creating warriors for a larger empire. We have no lives but the ones the Confederacy allows us, until we are no longer useful, and then we are discarded, lest we create future problems. Unless . . .”
“Unless you escape,” said Mike. “Or someone helps you escape.” And he suddenly realized why this former ghost was working for Arcturus Mengsk. She owed him her life.
Kerrigan just nodded in response. “There’s more to it, but yes.”
There were heavy footfalls at the entrance, and Mike rose with his gauss rifle ready. Raynor’s armored form appeared in the doorway.
“You children okay?” he shouted.
“We’re done here,” said Mike. “Center captured, message delivered.”
“Good,” said Captain Raynor, “ ’cause we’ve got a chunk of Alpha Squad coming up from the south, and we’re going to need all the help we can get handling them. She okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Kerrigan, rising to her feet. “You can talk to me directly, you know.”
“Maybe I’ll just think it at you,” said Raynor.
“Jim!” Mike sa
id sharply. “That’s enough.”
“What?” Raynor looked surprised by Mike’s tone.
“That’s enough,” repeated Mike, his tone less heated but still grave. His serious voice.
The large captain looked at Mike, then slowly nodded. “Yeah, I suppose it is.” To Kerrigan he said, “Sorry to offend, ma’am.”
“Used to it, Captain,” said Kerrigan. “You said we had more Confederates to kill. Let’s get a move on.”
She forced her way past both men, phasing invisible as she went.
Captain Raynor shook his head. “Women.”
Mike softened his tone. “She’s been under a lot of stress lately.”
Raynor snorted. “Could have fooled me.”
The pair followed Raynor out of the building. Along the horizon there were small flashes of battle as the Antigans and Confederates met in combat.
Above them, in the darkening sky, there were other flashes, of another battle. They danced across the sky like new stars and ended only when a brilliant meteor streaked across the sky, splitting the screaming atmosphere in its wake.
CHAPTER 10
THE WRECK OF THE NORAD II
There’s an old Earth word. Its called schadenfreude—the feeling of elation that comes from learning of the suffering of others. Like when you hear that a rival newsman suddenly was caught cursing in front of a live mike, or that a particularly corrupt alderman just stepped in front of a garbage truck. It’s elation accompanied by that twinge of guilt for feeling so good, and the quiet, fervent prayer that something that bad never happens to you.
With the Protoss and Zerg biting deep into Confederate territory, we had schadenfreude in buckets.
—THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO
OTHER MEN AND WOMEN WENT TO WAR. MIKE returned to Mengsk’s base and monitored the flow of communications. There was the blind panic he had come to expect during warfare—units suddenly cut off and demanding, then pleading for, reinforcements, then relief and finally rescue. Other messages from units that suddenly evaporated in a haze of radiation. And still other messages, these from civilians, asking for help from anyone, on any side.
And then there were the anomalous reports, the ones of monsters suddenly appearing in the countryside, ascribed to the Confederates, or the rebels, or to invasions from beyond. These reports were growing more numerous by the hour, and they convinced Mike that Kerrigan was right: the Zerg were on Antiga.
He wanted to hit the console when that realization sank in. Zerg presence was as good as a cancer diagnosis, and much more fatal. Until they figured out how to defeat them, the Zerg would eat this world alive. Or the Protoss—fatal chemotherapy—would sterilize it to keep the Zerg from spreading.
“But it doesn’t work that way, does it?” said Mike to the comm unit. “A few cells always seem to escape, and the cancer keeps growing.”
The fury he felt in his belly lasted only a moment, then was replaced with amazement as the next message rattled through his earpiece.
“This is General Duke, calling from the Alpha Squadron Norad II! flagship We’ve crash-landed and are being hit hard by the Zerg! Request immediate backup from anyone receiving this signal! Repeat, this is a priority one distress call. This is General Duke . . .”
The distress call went into a loop, and Michael listened to it three more times before checking the other channels.
There were a couple calls asking for confirmation, and a plethora of other responses, describing attacks by the Zerg and Antigan rebels, and in one case, an assault by other Confederate forces. And there were now reports of Protoss ships in-system, fighting something themselves, probably Zerg similar to the ones that brought down the Norad II, out in the outer rim of ice worlds. There were even some reports of Protoss ground forces appearing. There was a lot of noise, but nothing that resembled an honest, solid offer of help.
He’s cooked, thought Michael. Old Duke’s goose is finally cooked.
Raynor stormed in about ten minutes later. “Mike, you’re with me. Suit up.”
“What’s up?” Mike asked, reaching for his combat armor.
“You didn’t hear the news in here?” Raynor looked as though lightning bolts would spring from his brow at any moment.
“The normal panic and despair,” said Mike, waving at the board. “Oh, yeah. I heard Duke finally got promoted to general. Should we send a fruit basket?”
“Funny, newshound. Mengsk wants us to go in and rescue him. He thinks Duke would make a good ally.”
Mike blinked at the captain. “I’m hearing things, right?”
“That’s what I said,” Raynor said, holding out Mike’s helmet.
“He’s crazy!”
“It’s been noted,” Raynor said grimly.
“And Mengsk wants me to go? It’s news I can cover from here.”
“I want you to come along. That bastard locked me and my boys up. I’m going to want someone there who he’s willing to talk to.”
“Did I mention that the last time I talked to him he had me forcibly ejected from his bridge?” said Mike, taking the helmet.
“It’s come up, but at least I’m sure you’re not going to shoot him right away.”
Mike locked down the helmet and followed Raynor out of the comm area. “I suddenly have a craving for a cigarette.”
“Maybe you can bum one off Duke.”
Only when they were on the road did Mike think to ask, “Does Kerrigan know about this?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And she thinks it’s a good idea?”
“Actually,” said the former lawman, “she’s the one who called Mengsk crazy.”
“So you two agreed on something. I’m amazed.”
“Yeah,” said Raynor. Then there was a pause. “Yeah, I guess we did.”
Arcturus Mengsk was starting to rally troops now to his banner, and when Raynor and Mike arrived on the surface, the assault to rescue the downed battle-cruiser was already under way.
The units that barreled across the flats now included Antigan rebels, Sons of Korhal, and Confederate stragglers that had discarded their loyalties and kept their weapons. Raynor rode at the left flank of a flight of Vulture hover-cycles, while overhead a squadron of A-17 Wraith fighters tore through the sky. Huge Goliaths left great splayed footprints in the soft mud, and they soon overtook a unit of Arclite siege tanks, churning across the bottomlands, their support frames pulled up for movement.
The combined forces met resistance almost immediately. Zerglings and hydralisks spattered on all sides of them, like bugs on a windshield. The air was filled with both the organic cannons (now known to Mike and the rest of human space as mutalisks) and creatures that looked like jellyfish rains with lobster claws; they drifted over the alien forces like storm-clouds in the desert.
There was a cluster of marines off to Mike’s right, swarming up the sides of what looked like a giant upright zergling, a titanic creature with front claws like huge, hooked sabers. On the horizon, something that looked like a cross between a flying squid and a giant starfish fled from the assault of the Wraith fighters.
They plowed through the Zerg forces, routing some, eliminating others. A group of zerglings erupted from the ground and took out a full unit of marines before the Vultures arrived and laid down a blanket of withering fire.
The Zerg fell back, returned in greater numbers, then fell back again. Mike felt he was fighting the sea. The waves were being beaten back, but he was sure that it was an illusion. The tide was coming in, and it would return in greater force.
In his gut Mike knew that Antiga Prime was damned, as damned as Chau Sara and Mar Sara had been. These things were burrowing through the heart of the world, and either they would be successful or the Protoss would burn them from space.
The Zerg line stiffened for a moment, then broke again, and the humans were through, heading for the uplands where the Norad II went down.
With one glance at the starship, Mike could see that the old behemoth would never fly aga
in. Its rear engine pods had been twisted at a forty-five degree angle to the rest of the structure, and the lower landing struts, if they had even been deployed, had been mired totally in the mud. The ship’s forward bridge hung precariously over the edge of the mesa, with a view of the devastation beneath it.
Mike and Raynor gunned their engines for an open hatchway and drove their Vultures on board. They sealed the hatch behind them manually, while outside another wave of mutalisks popped up over the horizon.
“Which way?” asked Raynor, pulling off his helmet.
“Come on,” said Mike, tearing off toward the bridge. He moved through the tight spaces of the Norad II effortlessly, despite his combat armor. He had noticed that Mengsk provided larger hallways on his ship than the Confederacy managed.
It was as if Duke had never left the bridge. The silverbacked gorilla was still hunched over his station in his armored hide. The only change was the number of screens around him that showed nothing but static, and a cascade of fiber-optic cables draped along one bulkhead. He turned to the newcomers and scowled.
“You’re about the last folks I expected to show up,” he growled.
“Yeah, we love you, too, General,” said Mike, pushing his way to the ship’s comm unit. He punched in the communication code for Mengsk’s base.
“What’s all this about?” Duke barked.
“A word from our sponsor,” said Mike. “It feels like years since I last said that. Anyone got a cig?”
On the screen, the static-scarred form of Arcturus Mengsk formed. Mengsk, thought Mike, safe in his secret redoubt while the rest of us did the fighting and bleeding.
Mike didn’t think it possible, but Duke’s scowl deepened. “What’s your angle, Mengsk?” he asked.
“Our angle?” Raynor snarled. “I’ll give you an angle, you slimy Confederate piece of . . .”
“Easy, Jim,” said Mike.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Mengsk, “the Confederacy is falling apart, Duke. Its colonies are in open revolt. The Zerg are rampaging unchecked. What would have happened here today if we hadn’t shown up?”
