Uh. ..Zamara, do you know how to operate this thing at all? Or maybe at least open the door?
I am sure I will be able to comprehend it. Zeratul shared much with Tassadar about the source of dark templar energies. I may not be able to control it as he does, but perhaps I can... intuit...
Jake relinquished control of his body and let her ease it into a chair. The controls of the ship were barely visible, buttons and indentations on an otherwise flat surface. Zamara passed Jake's hand, fingers spread, over the controls, and they hummed to glowing green life.
Ah! Excellent. Let us see how long it has been since the vessel was operated.
Symbols appeared, flashing faster than Jake could register them. But apparently Zamara had no such trouble.
It has been several months since anyone has operated the ship.
That doesn't sound promising.
It is neither promising nor dispiriting; it is simply a fact. There is no way to determine the identity of the ship's owner. Now to find coordinates.
Zamara waved Jake's hand again, in an undulating pattern, over part of the controls, and a screen lit up. Alien symbols raced over it. The dark templar have certainly suffered, and many are still resentful. However, they still revere Aiur, and have never sought to deny their protoss heritage. They did not create a new written language... which is fortunate for us. There are several flight paths entered into the knowledge banks of this vessel. Let us see where they take us.
What—you 're stealing this ship? Jake had a sudden rather comical mental image of a protoss off catching some cosmic rays and seeing his ship lift off without him.
I have programmed the vessel to scan for any protoss life-forms. There are none within several hundred kilometers, and as I told you, the vessel has not been operated for many months. I suspect that this ship, located in such close proximity to the warp gate, is waiting for its pilot to return from his or her travels beyond the gate.
Well, that makes sense, but what if he comes back and his ship's not here?
Why then, it will be necessary for him to make contact with us, and that is precisely what we wish to happen, is it not?
And before Jake quite knew what was happening, the dark templar ship had powered up, lifted off, and was moving swiftly and silently among pink clouds.
CHAPTER 3
ETHAN STEWART HAD ONCE BEEN MERELY human. A fine specimen of his species, to be sure, with a body powerful and toned and a mind disciplined and sharp, but only human nonetheless. He was more now. Augmented, enhanced, improved. He was the consort to Kerrigan, Queen of Blades, mistress of the zerg, whom he adored and would serve to the last drop of.. .whatever passed for blood now surging through his veins.
Rosemary Dahl had once been his lover, and he had once honestly cared for her. But now he lived to serve his queen, and Ethan, part human and part zerg, could think of no worse fate than disappointing Kerrigan.
So when his quarry, a simple archaeologist, who admittedly happened to have a protoss preserver in his brain, ran through the swirling blue mist of the warp gate on Aiur, Ethan let out a roar of combined outrage and agony. He had only been a few paces behind Ramsey—but it might as well have been light-years. The man had escaped.
She knew; she saw through his eyes when she chose to, and she saw what he saw, and her fury chilled him.
"The first task I set you to, and you fail me! Apparently capturing a single human male was too difficult for you, even when I give you control of my vast army!"
"My queen.. .we could not possibly have expected the Dominion or the dark archon—"
"One's mettle is tested by how well one reacts to the unexpected. I am disappointed in you, Ethan. Perhaps my creation was not as perfect as I had thought."
"Trust me, my queen, you have wrought excellent work."
"Then prove me wrong. You have let Ramsey and the girl escape. Find them, bring Ramsey to me, and I shall be mollified."
He stared at the battle that still raged, even though the prize he, the Dominion, and the dark archon were apparently all after had slipped through their collective fingers. Rosemary, Jake, and the protoss in his brain had gone through an active warp gate—they could be anywhere another warp gate opened.
Maybe anywhere in the universe.
How the hell was he to find them?
Ethan regarded the zerg under his command as they slashed, chewed, and clawed at what remained of the protoss, were shot to pulpy bits by the Dominion vessels, and launched themselves at the swirling, huge, crimson mass that was the dark archon.
He did not know how to operate the gates; that was protoss knowledge, and nearly all the protoss were dead. Some he himself had killed, quickly dispatching them in frustration when they gleefully revealed their ignorance of the warp gate technology. Apparently such was not just protoss knowledge, but rare protoss knowledge. Furious, Ethan gathered himself and stared out over the blood-saturated ground. A few protoss still stood, making a noble but ultimately futile last stand against the thing out there. Even if the dark archon fell, even if the Dominion departed, both Ethan and the doomed protoss knew he would turn his zerg upon them.
He looked around, waving the extra pair of scythe-like limbs with which Kerrigan had gifted him, itching to slice and maim and kill. There. There was one, downed but not dead. Not yet.
Ethan sent the order, and a pair of hydralisks immediately ceased their attack and hastened to the injured protoss. Before it fully understood what was happening, they had lifted it and borne it to their commander.
The wounded protoss raised his head with a great effort and peered up at Ethan. His armor had been rent in several places and he was slippery with blood. He would not last long without treatment. "Do you know how to operate the warp gate?" Ethan demanded. The protoss nodded weakly. "Yes. But I will not aid you."
Elation and irritation both filled him. "You do not understand the gravity of your situation, protoss."
The alien closed its eyes and tilted its head. "It is you who do not understand. I am redeemed. I would never compromise my redemption for you. I am Alzadar, and I will die a templar, as I once was."
Ethan muttered, "I do not have time for this..." and at once one of the hydralisks impaled its hook-like blade into Alzadar's thigh. The protoss arched in silent agony, reminding Ethan of an insect impaled on a pin.
"You will find no one among my people who will help you recover Jacob Ramsey. We face death gladly."
"Death yes, but torture?"
The protoss's eyes, which had dimmed, suddenly brightened. "Even that. I pity you. You do not understand what it is to love something greater than yourself." He shuddered. "My life... for... Aiur."
Perhaps Alzadar would have broken eventually, had he not been so severely injured. Perhaps he could have been "convinced" to cooperate. But the protoss was badly injured, and before Ethan quite realized it, Alzadar was dead. Ethan cursed.
In the end, Ethan thought with more than a touch of worry, Alzadar's prediction about the nature of the protoss was more than likely correct. How, then, was Ethan to track Jake? Panic fluttered inside him for an instant, but he resolutely pushed it down. He would simply have to find another way, that was all.
He summoned the mutalisk and climbed atop it again, surveying the battle that raged below from an aerial vantage point. Perhaps a fresh perspective would give him insight.
What was happening should not have been possible.
Ulrezaj raged even as he realized that he was likely about to die. How could such a thing happen? He was Ulrezaj! It had been his mind that had seen possibilities where others saw only atrocities. It had been his daring that had taken him to a place where no one, no thing, had ever had the courage to venture. It had been fear that had caused the dark templar, long ago, to forbid the creation of such power. He understood why they feared it; such power, whirling out of control, could do more harm than good.
But Ulrezaj was completely, entirely in control.
Until this moment.
>
Stubborn protoss, Dominion vessels, and zerg. Anyone, anything else would have perished under theonslaught. Ulrezaj would have vanquished them and reduced Zamara and the frail terran in which she'd secreted herself to handfuls of shredded flesh, had it not been for the psionic storms that the few remaining protoss had inexplicably been able to summon.
He felt his strength ebbing. He swayed as the attacks continued, and knew with both confusion and fury that he would soon fall. They would be upon him then, and he would not recover. All his knowledge, all his power, all the glory that was going to be his, was supposed to have been his—lost.
It was, he would have thought mere moments ago, impossible.
And then, like the eye of the hurricane passing over, there was a pause. The fighting ceased for the most part, and even as hope that he might indeed survive gave him fresh energy, Ulrezaj realized that his prey had fled.
Zamara, clever, despised Zamara, had eluded his grasp a second time.
He did not waste precious time and energy fighting to move forward to discover if the gate was still open. He knew it would not be. Zamara was not a fool, she would not leave such an easy trail for him to follow.
There was nothing to do but retreat and try again. Ulrezaj gathered himself and sent his instructions to those Forged who still stood with him.
The treachery of the Shel'na Kryhas and the attacks of these new foes weakens me. Protect me while I return to the chambers, where I may rest and grow powerful once again.
Xava'tor, we hear, and we obey.
Immediately the ships that had been pressing the attack closed in around Ulrezaj's swirling essence as the enormous dark archon changed direction and moved swiftly toward safety.
"It's hurt," breathed Devon Starke, former ghost and now devoted employee of Valerian Mengsk. "The protoss mental attacks were able to hurt it."
It had been difficult, protecting himself against the power of the dark archon's mind—minds? It was hard to tell which—but Starke had managed to do it. He could not read the thoughts of the dark archon perse, not the way he could those of terrans, but he could get bits and pieces. Enough so that he understood that the protoss had utilized a psionic attack that had managed to harm this seemingly unstoppable juggernaut of darkness that was moving implacably toward—
And it was then he realized that Jake and Rosemary had indeed made their escape. Starke rubbed his head, which was aching terribly. The combination of battling protoss, zerg, and this monstrous thing that had appeared out of nowhere had been too much of a distraction. Starke had come for one thing, one man, and that man was gone.
"Contact Mr. V," he ordered.
"Sir," the pilot said, his voice strained, "I can't raise anyone. Not even the other ships." "What?"
"Whatever the protoss did somehow short-circuited our communications system. We're damned lucky we're still flying."
Damn it. Starke was used to following orders. He needed to know where to go, what to do—regroup with the others, or attempt to figure out the warp gate, or—
—or follow the dark archon, who was now retreating almost more swiftly than it had advanced.
Starke closed his eyes, willing his body to accept the pain, trading the agony for information.
It was indeed hurt. Wounded, even. Exhausted. It needed to rest. Recover. In... below. Then it would attack again. It would find the preserver and destroy her. There was no place she could hide from—
"Ulrezaj," Devon whispered. He had a name now. Maybe that would help. In the meantime, he knew what he had to do. There was no following Jake Ramsey through the warp gate. But it was clear that this being, this Ulrezaj, wanted Ramsey as badly as Valerian did.
"The dark archon is going to ground," he told the pilot. "Let him think he's shaken us, but don't lose him. When he makes his move, which he will, we will follow him at a distance."
The pilot looked uneasy, but nodded. "Of course, sir."
"In the meantime, I will take a hawk and rendezvous with Mr. V's vessel and apprise him of what has happened." Starke rose and then gripped the arm of the chair as his vision swirled. Such close contact with Ulrezaj, plus uncomfortably close proximity to the—storms, he supposed he would call them, of the protoss had tired him more than he thought.
He sat back down hard in the chair and forced a laugh. "I'll do that in... just a few moments."
Fear skittered along Valerian's mind. He liked Devon Starke. He did not want to think that the man had perished. Beside him, his personal assistant, Charles Whittier, muttering under his breath and looking even more distraught than usual, frantically moved his hands over the controls, trying to raise the ghost. Or indeed anyone, as all the screens were still ominously dark.
"Sir, I-I'm afraid that whatever it was the protoss did may have shorted out communication."
Valerian nodded his blond head, brushing absently at a stray lock that fell into his eyes. "Keep trying, Whittier." He clapped a hand on his assistant's shoulder in what he hoped was a heartening manner. Instead Whittier jumped about a foot.
Valerian folded his arms across his chest, thinking. It was quite possible he'd just lost all his vessels. He'd put every resource available into this, and if they were gone, he'd have to start from the beginning. He thought about the last thing he'd heard from Starke. It's all we can do to stop this dark archon from killing them. The protoss are doing something—I'm not sure what—but it's giving the thing pause.
The moments ticked by. There was no response.
Valerian had sent every ship save his own down to Aiur to capture Jake. None of them had reported in. The best case scenario was that their communications systems were damaged; the worst, that whatever it was the protoss were doing had wiped out his entire fleet.
"This is Captain Macey for Mr. V, are you available, sir?"
Captain Dennis Macey had a smooth, confident voice that sounded like nothing in the universe would take him by surprise. Even now, he sounded so calm one could almost imagine he was bored.
Valerian leaned down and pressed a button. "This is Mr. V., Captain—have you had any contact with your vessels on the surface?"
"Negative, sir, not for several minutes. I'm attempting to raise them, but with no luck."
Valerian was left with only one option.
"Captain, I'll be on the bridge in a moment." He ended the conversation and turned to Whittier. "I'm going down there, Whittier. Prepare my hawk."
"Sir! You can't possibly—what would your father—"
Valerian turned. Gray eyes narrowing, he fixed a gaze on Whittier that silenced the man in mid-sentence. "I came here to find Ramsey. If Ramsey is dead, I need to know. If everyone I set to that task is dead, I need to know. They are my responsibility. Keep monitoring, Whittier."
"Y-yes, sir."
Captain Macey, a tall, taciturn man with skin the color of coffee and eyes that never revealed what he was thinking, turned without surprise as his employer entered and nodded acknowledgment of the Heir Apparent's presence.
Valerian gazed out the huge windows and regarded Aiur turning slowly in space. From this distance, nothing could be seen of the fighting on the surface.
"Starke said that the protoss were doing something—utilizing some kind of psionic attack," Valerian told the captain.
"I don't know that much about the protoss, sir, but I know they know how to ruin a planet. It's entirely possible our ships are—"
"...to Illustrious, come in Illustrious."
The voice sounded exhausted, but it was clearly recognizable as belonging to Devon Starke. Valerian felt a grin spreading across his face. "Devon! Are you all right?"
"Not quite sure how to answer that, sir, but I am alive. And I have quite a lot of news."
CHAPTER 4
ROSEMARY THOUGHT BACK TO THE LAST TIME she'd been in a cell. It had not been all that long ago, though it felt like she'd lived a lifetime since then. It had been right when Valerian had double-crossed her. She'd been about to turn Jake Ramsey over to
the tender loving care of the marines aboard the Gray Tiger and collect her payment. Instead, the marines had arrested her too.
She'd been put in a tiny little makeshift cell that she had paced too many times to count. Rosemary recalled kicking the prefab walls in anger—that had not been her smartest moment. She owed her eventual freedom to the very man she'd planned to betray. A smile curved her lips as she recalled the door swinging open and Jake entering. She'd jumped him before she realized who he was, and they'd both hit the floor hard. Jake had not had Zamara in his head very long at that point, and he'd been exhausted by the ordeal. Though he had been the one to unlock her door, it was Rosemary who got them to safety when Jake passed out.
Rosemary realized that not only was she worried about Jake's safety and, yes, that of the protoss in his brain, but...she missed the guy.
She surveyed her current living quarters with a wry grin. No tiny prefab-walled cell for her this time. If this was any indication, the protoss did things on a much classier scale than humans did. The room was spacious, with a large, soft mattress on the floor, tables and chairs (a bit too large for a human frame, let alone her petite one, but tables and chairs nonetheless), and a spacious window that nearly took up half the wall. It opened onto a purple-blue landscape of swirling sands and buildings, the latter only distinguishable in the apparent eternal twilight by faint lights. She had had only three real complaints, some of which were more easily taken care of than others. One was the lighting; it was apparently controlled by telepathy, and Rosemary was sorely lacking in that quarter. She had had to knock on the door and ask her guard to turn the lights on and off. The second was food and water. Rosemary remembered Jake saying that the protoss got all their nutrients from the sun, moon, and stars. She needed something more substantial. Which led to her third complaint—a rather pressing need for a chamber pot.
The food had seemed to pose the biggest problem. She'd not seen much of Shakuras—the brief glimpse of an outside area when she and the other protoss had run through the gate was pretty much it. Rosemary had been ushered onto the ship and not been allowed to look outside during the brief flight to— wherever it was.
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