Flashpoint

by Christie Golden

  Jim pulled Valerian away and together they started stamping on the floorboards, searching for something that would mark where the trapdoor was.

  A second gas grenade was lobbed into the ramshackle building, hissing as it spread its vile contents into the air. Narud grabbed it and threw it back out, but two more came in from the other side. They all started to cough.

  Matt was feeling dizzy, and he wasn’t sure if it was from loss of blood or the impact of the gas. His legs buckled and he found himself sitting, perplexed, on the floor of the building.

  “There,” came Valerian’s voice. It sounded thin and faint to Matt’s ears, as did Mira’s voice on the fone.

  “Matthew? Keep talking. Has James found the tunnel?”

  “I think so,” Matt said. He was surprised at how slurred his words were. He was still bleeding. “Mira? I don’t think I’m gonna make it out.”

  “Nonsense.” Her voice was brisk and certain. “I am not yet ready to be a widow, Matthew Horner.”

  And then, somehow, Matt was staring at a pair of boots. Hands reached down, grabbed him none too gently, and he went down a dark hole. He knew no more.

  * * *

  “We lost them.”

  “What? I gave them to you on a silver platter!” Cooper put all his fury into his voice. The Hyperion was engaged in battle; he was alone for the moment.

  “We had them trapped in an abandoned building, lobbed in a few gas grenades—then when we busted in, they were gone.”

  “Gone? How could you lose them in a . . . ” Realization crashed over him. “Oh, damn you, Crane, you idiot, there had to be a tunnel in the floor!”

  “I, uh . . . I guess there had to have been, yeah.”

  “And I assume you have no idea where it led.”

  “ . . . No.”

  He glanced ruefully at his small packed bag, stashed out of sight behind the bar. “Okay, this probably won’t do you any good, but I’m going to send you the coordinates of the original rendezvous. Knowing Jim, I bet he’s changed it a half-dozen times, plus you have no idea where the tunnel goes. I’d send some men to cover the rendezvous point if I were you. The rest of you, get in that building and find out where the tunnel opens out!”

  Quickly Cooper sent the coordinates and clicked off the fone. It didn’t look like he was going to be rich anytime soon—but a man could still hope.

  * * *

  When Matt struggled to consciousness, his lungs and nasal passages burned, and he felt nauseated. His arm was red-hot agony, but his mind was clear enough to register three things: one, he was alive; two, they had escaped; and three, Valerian was carrying him like a sack of grain slung over one shoulder.

  “Put me down,” he grumbled.

  “Not yet,” Valerian said. That was when Matt realized the fourth thing—Valerian was running, as were Jim and Narud. Where, Matt didn’t know; he had a fine view of the ground and Valerian’s running legs, but little else.

  He started to struggle, then realized all he would be doing would be interfering with his own escape and probably putting them all at risk. Frowning, his head aching from the aftereffects of the gas, he stayed quiet.

  “Mira is a fine lady,” said Valerian. “Sent us a very nice transport . . . and some fellows to make sure . . . we get on.” He panted a little between phrases. “We’re almost there.”

  “And so are the mercs,” said Jim.

  “We can . . . make it,” Valerian said, adjusting Matt on his shoulder. “Hang on, Matt.”

  From his ignoble position, Matt did exactly that. Valerian broke into a full-out run, and Matt could now hear the sounds of ships overhead. Dust sprang up from misses far too close for comfort. Then there came the sound of counterfire and a voice that made his heart lift.

  “Don’t you dare hurt my Matthew!”

  Mira sounded very, very pissed off. And Matt started to feel sorry for the mercs. A few harrowing moments later that felt like centuries, Valerian came to a stop and shifted Matt from his shoulder.

  “You need to quit eating pastries,” the heir to the empire gasped. His face was bright red and covered with sweat. Matt had no idea how long Valerian had been running, carrying a weight approximately equal to his own.

  “I don’t eat pastries,” Matt said. “Well, not very often. A chocolate éclair now and then, sometimes—”

  “Matthew!” Matt first saw a shock of pink, then Mira’s grinning face. She sobered once she saw the bloody bandage. “You have very good friends. Now, hurry—the ships have taken damage but we can still make it!”

  Matt looked around. Jim, joined by Valerian now that the prince had been relieved of his burden, was standing in the shadow of a transport, firing at some of the mercs who were on foot. Shadows cast by ships overhead moved quickly on the red, dusty soil.

  Mira slipped an arm around him. “Come, come!” she said, ushering him into the vessel. As she eased him down into the seat, he stared at her chest. There was a large, wet, red spot on it.

  “You’ve been hit!” he gasped, surprised at how much pain shot through him.

  She smiled gently. “No, Matthew, that is your blood. Your wound is still bleeding. I am fine. But you are so sweet to worry!” She tilted his chin up and gave him a long, passionate kiss. Matt found himself kissing back and blamed it on the emotions roused by skirting death.

  Then she was gone, darting off the ship, and Jim, Narud, and Valerian climbed aboard. Jim climbed right for the pilot’s seat, and Valerian took the copilot’s chair.

  “Where are your medical supplies?” Narud asked. “Mr. Horner needs attention.”

  “Ain’t my ship,” Jim shot back, closing the doors and preparing for takeoff, “but I’d try under the last seat in the back. How you doing back there, Matt?”

  “Alive, sir.”

  “Good. Narud, you keep him that way. Hang on to the railings and keep your arms inside the bar at all times.”

  Valerian laughed. And then with an abruptness that made Matt happy that there was nothing in his stomach, they were airborne. Two seconds later, they were under fire. The ship rocked violently, and Matt was glad he was buckled in.

  Narud, clutching the medical kit and sitting beside Matt, looked extremely uncomfortable. Matt put his hand over his wound. Mira was right; the wound was clearly more extensive than a plastiscab bandage could handle. It was bleeding afresh, and he put pressure on it. Wincing a little, he said, “We’ll make it. Jim’s a damned good pilot.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to be,” said Narud, in a soft, resigned voice. He opened the kit, trying to keep the contents from spilling out, and began rummaging through it.

  “This? This is nothing,” Jim scoffed. “Watch this.” And with only that for warning, Jim pulled the transport’s nose up almost vertical. Narud whimpered, just a little. They were so close to the vessel they were evading that Matt locked eyes with its pilot for a moment. Narud scowled and made an angry gesture.

  Matt couldn’t help it. Maybe it was the loss of blood or the narrow escape or Mira’s kiss, but he started to laugh. He recognized it as inappropriate and perhaps even a little hysterical, but why not? Why the hell not? Either they would live or they wouldn’t, and whichever it was, it was out of his hands. Narud stared at him, aghast.

  “That’s my boy,” Jim approved from the cockpit. “Better to go out laughing.”

  Narud turned a shade paler, and Horner laughed even more.

  “Swann, this is Raynor.”

  “Where in the ever-loving galaxy are you, cowboy? We’ve been fighting off some Wraiths and vikings and who knows what else and are waiting at the rendezvous point.”

  “I know, but we had to take a shortcut to avoid getting slaughtered. Didn’t think you would mind too much.”

  Rory Swann’s language nearly melted the console. “Well, get your butt onto the Hyperion while there’s still one to get onto the Hyperion. And,” he added, “a Hyperion to get onto.”

  Matt leaned back into the seat. Blood ran thro
ugh his fingers, warm and wet. Narud spoke clearly and calmly, making sure Matt met his eyes. “Mr. Horner, the brachial artery has been damaged. A single bandage was insufficient to prevent it from seeping blood. Once we are on board the Bucephalus, we should be able to repair it, but I don’t have proper tools here. I’m going to put three bandages on to seal it shut for now. Do you understand?”

  “Three for one. Got it.”

  Jim brought the transport up as quickly as possible, leaving the ugliness that was Deadman’s Rock behind. Matt looked out the window while Narud worked. Was it so ugly? That junk had saved them from being hunted, at least for a while. And somewhere down there was a gutsy pink-haired woman who would never, ever be his dream girl, but who was someone he admired and cared about.

  Maybe it wasn’t so ugly after all.

  It fell away from view, the distinct shapes of the building vanishing into the red dust, softened now by clouds. The transport rocked, and Matt saw a flash of light as they were hit, and hit hard. A klaxon started to wail, and the lights dimmed to a blood-red. Matt looked forward, through the main viewscreen.

  The Hyperion had seldom looked so lovely, but her captain was anguished as he watched the ship taking fire. He did not rejoice in the life lost when a Wraith exploded in a ball of fire, but was glad that the smaller ship was no longer a threat. Jim guided the wounded vessel to the Hyperion’s port, circling to find the docking bay. It was opening, slowly. Too slowly.

  “We’ll never make it!” Narud cried.

  “Shut your trap, Doc,” Jim said almost blandly. “Such obvious doubt interferes with my miracle working.”

  They took another shot, this one in the bow. There was the crackle and sputter of the console sparking violently. Jim flicked the extinguisher switch, and a surge of foam put out the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Narud. “There, see what you’ve done?”

  Matt swallowed hard as his eyes met Jim’s. The console was completely inoperative. The transport would not slow—nothing in motion in space did of its own accord—but neither were they capable of deviating from their course. If Swann didn’t figure out what had happened to them and moved the Hyperion—

  Another blow. Another fire started to burn in the back.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Narud.

  “Nothing,” said Jim. “Got nothing I can do. Can’t navigate, can’t communicate, can’t fight. It’s all up to Swann now.”

  And to Matt Horner’s delight, Jim Raynor laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and started to whistle. Beside Matt, Narud put his head in his hands and moaned, very quietly.

  Valerian stared at Jim for a moment, then a smile curved his lips and he emulated Raynor. “When there is nothing to be done,” he said, “do nothing.”

  “You’re starting to figure it out, Valerian.” Jim’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Shit. Sitting ducks.”

  * * *

  Matt saw it, too, out the window. A Wraith that had seen better days, but was still spaceworthy enough to swoop in and get the transport lined up in its sights. Apparently the notion of “kidnapping” Raynor, Horner, and Valerian—poor Narud was just an accidental bonus—and turning them over to Mengsk had gone out the airlock. One good blast, as vulnerable as they were, would destroy them. Mengsk was seemingly okay with the “dead” part of “wanted dead or alive.”

  And then the Wraith exploded. Matt craned his neck to see who had fired the shot and saw that it had come from the Bucephalus. “Valerian,” he said, “maybe you and your people aren’t a lost cause after all.”

  For a long, long moment, nothing happened. The docking bay was open, ready to receive them, but everyone knew that at the speed they were traveling, they wouldn’t make it. Another Wraith would find them. Then, slowly, the docking bay seemed to drift closer. Matt’s face split with a huge grin. If the transport couldn’t make it in time to reach the docking bay, the amazing Swann would bring the docking bay to the transport. They still weren’t out of the woods yet; the door wasn’t all that wide, and a slight miscalculation on Swann’s part would mean they would crash into the side of the ship, meters away from safety.

  But Swann was good. The Hyperion moved closer, and Matt held his breath as the transport scraped the side of the entrance, ever so slightly. The doors closed, atmosphere was restored, and the ship dropped heavily to the platform.

  “Told you we’d be fine,” said Jim.

  Two minutes later, both the Bucephalus and the Hyperion executed a warp jump.

  * * *

  Mira watched the ship take off. All four of the men who had been charged to her care had made it, but Matthew had been wounded. He would survive, though. He was tough. Not tough like her, but tough in his own rather odd and gentle way. For a moment she allowed her gaze to linger on it, until it was nothing more than a bright speck in the sky.

  She would miss her husband.

  Then she turned her gaze to her enemies, looking from land to air. Mercenaries, hired by her own people—people who had wanted to take what she had. People she had trusted. Already there was a list of names. Mira’s mouth set in a hard, thin line, and she lifted a rifle, taking aim first at those her cybernetic eye could see and recognize.

  Cross her? Mira Han? Harm Matthew and his friends, who had come in good faith seeking sanctuary?

  They would pay for their transgression. Every last one of them.

  She started with Crane.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Once he had gotten Matt to the Hyperion’s sick bay and proper care—which would, the doctor assured him, include repairing the damaged artery and a transfusion to replace the blood that had been lost—Jim made a beeline for the Bucephalus and Sarah. Frederick looked up at him as he entered. There was a look on his face that Jim didn’t like. Frederick looked . . . worried.

  And more than a little scared.

  “Mira’s doctors had to tranquilize her,” the doctor said without preamble as Jim strode over to his by-now usual seat next to Kerrigan.

  Jim shot him a hard look. “Why?”

  “She knew,” Frederick said. His arms were crossed. He was definitely keyed up. “About the attack.”

  “Well, of course she—”

  “Before it happened, Raynor.” Frederick bit the words out. “According to the doctors, she started—well, making things break, screaming that you were in trouble. She got out of bed and fell. I dislike keeping her doped up, but it was the only way I could manage her.”

  Jim fought to keep his expression neutral. “I see,” he said. So her powers are coming back, he thought. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

  Sarah murmured, tossing her head. Jim reached out to take her hand. “There, there, darlin’, I made it back fine. Just fine. Everyone’s all right.”

  “J-Jim?” Her speech was slurred. It seemed to take a great effort for her to open her eyes, and when she did, the pupils were dilated. “You—you’re okay.”

  “Takes more than a little ambush to keep me from your side,” he said teasingly. The funny thing was, it was true.

  “Why did you go? I . . . I forget . . . . ” She looked up at him anxiously, and Jim thought he’d better tell her.

  “Well, we went to notify someone who can help you,” Jim began, but another voice, smooth, youthful, and cultured, interrupted him.

  “We’re going to take you somewhere you can get the treatment you need, Miss Kerrigan,” said Valerian.

  Sarah stared at him a moment, then started to frown. “You’re Valerian.”

  He smiled. He was still wearing the filthy “undercover” clothes he had been forced to don while in Deadman’s Port, but had dropped the act. His voice and body language bespoke his heritage. And Sarah Kerrigan obviously didn’t like his heritage.

  “I am,” he said. “I think our friend Jim here has told you how it is you came to be restored to yourself and resting here in sick bay. But we can’t treat you properly here. I contacted an old scientist friend of mine, and we’re headi
ng right now to a secret base where the Moebius Foundation has a state-of-the-art laboratory. There, we can—”

  “Experiment on me like a rat? No thanks.”

  “Sarah, I’m not going to let them do that,” Jim insisted, giving Valerian a glance that he hoped would be correctly interpreted as Get out, let me calm her down. Valerian lifted his golden brows, but remained where he was.

  “You think you can stand up to him? To these so-called scientists?” She was growing more agitated, and Jim supposed he couldn’t blame her. “I don’t trust you, Heir Apparent. You’re a Mengsk. And I know what Mengsks do. Jim, the second we get to this place, you won’t be in command anymore. They’ll take me and do things to me and lock you up if they don’t kill you on sight.”

  “Valerian’s all we’ve got, honey,” Jim said. “And so far, he’s been pretty decent. For a priss.”

  Valerian smirked a little, but it was hollow. Jim didn’t need to be able to read minds to know that Sarah’s words had wounded him. At the same time, Valerian was a big boy and had to have known precisely what kind of reception Arcturus Mengsk’s son was going to receive.

  Sarah’s eyes closed. “I’m tired,” she said, and Jim could tell she was. Fighting the medication even for so short a period of time had wiped her out. He tucked her hand under the sheet, rose, kissed her forehead, and turned to leave with Valerian.

  “Her psionic powers are coming back,” Jim said quietly as the door closed behind them. He would have preferred not to have let on about that, but as it had been brought to his own attention by the doctor himself, Valerian was sure to hear shortly.

  “I see,” said Valerian.

  “Dunno what she can do yet, but the doctor said she knew that we were coming under attack and started shattering equipment.”

  “Then I am glad Narud is here to—”

  “Not yet,” Jim said. “I know he’s itching to get his hands on her, but you saw how she reacted to just you. And I trust you a lot more than I do Narud.”

  Valerian gave him a smile. “Your trust means a great deal, Jim. Thank you for that.”