STARCRAFT™: LIBERTY’S CRUSADE Read online

  Raynor’s evacuees were supposed to hold tight until the marines contacted them. Mike figured he could hang with Raynor’s crew for about a day, maybe two, then either catch a lift back to the city with the marines or find his own ride back. Heck, once news of the colonial marines fighting the Zerg got on the local news, their group might even be bumped forward in the queue.

  He didn’t worry about the report until late the next day, when the real marines arrived.

  They howled down out of the orange sky like steel-shod furies. The Confederate dropships deployed at the cardinal points around the refugee camp, preventing easy escape. As soon as they landed, heavily armored marines in full, modern combat gear piled out, accompanied by firebats, specialty troops armed with plasma-based flame throwers. A single Goliath strode out of the belly of one of the dropships and stood guard over the far end of the camp.

  The marines quickly surrounded the encampment and advanced into the refugees’ midst. Wherever they met colonial troops, they called for their disarmament and surrender. Surprised and unsure, the colonials complied.

  Mike, now dressed in his civilian gear and long duster, headed for Raynor’s tent. He got there just as the marshal was shouting at his vidscreen.

  “Are you out of your mind? If we hadn’t burned that damned factory this entire colony could have been overrun! Maybe if you hadn’t taken your sweet time in getting here . . .”

  “Now I asked you nice the first time, boy,” came a familiar voice over the screen that froze Mike’s soul. He could not see the face, but he knew that Colonel Duke was at the other end of that vid-link. “I didn’t come here to talk with you. Now throw down them weapons!”

  Raynor muttered, “Guess you wouldn’t be a Confederate if you weren’t a complete pain in the ass.” Only then did he toggle the link off. To Mike he said, “Typical Confed thinking. We do their jobs for them, so naturally they’re peeved at the competition.”

  A pair of marines in full kit appeared in the doorway. “Marshal James Raynor, we have a warrant for your arrest for treasonous activities—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” sighed Raynor. “I got the love note from your colonel.” He placed his sidearms on the table. They vanished into the possession of the marine.

  “There was also a Michael Liberty of the Universe News Network present at the time of the assault on the command post,” said the marine, turning toward Mike.

  “Well, he’s—” Raynor began.

  “Gone,” said Mike, holding up his press tags. “Name’s Rourke. Local press. Mickey booked out yesterday after filing his report.”

  The marine swiped the swapped ID card across a reader, then grunted. Mike hoped that the patchiness of global communications prevented Rourke’s picture from coming up.

  The marine said, “Mr. Rourke, you are as of this moment in a restricted area. You must leave at once.”

  Raynor said, “What the—”

  Mike interrupted him. “Of course, sir. I’m gone.”

  The marine continued, “I must remind you that under martial law, anything you report of this will be reviewed by military censors. Any treasonous writings will be reported, and the writer will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

  “Right you are, man. I mean, sir,” said Mike.

  Raynor shouted at Mike, “Hey, ‘Rourke,’ you’d better take my bike.” He tossed the reporter the keys. “It doesn’t look like I’m going to be needing it for a while.”

  “Sure thing, Marshal,” said Mike.

  The lawman looked hard at Mike. “And if you see that Liberty jasper,” he said in a stony voice, “tell him I expect him to do something about this mess. You hear?”

  “Loud and clear, man,” said Mike. “Loud and clear.”

  Even so, Mike didn’t let himself relax until he was a good five klicks from the refugee encampment. When he left, Raynor’s men were being herded into the dropships. If Duke followed standard Confederate military procedure, they would be lifted to a prison hulk in high orbit.

  Mike consoled himself with the fact that at least in orbit they would have some protection from the Zerg and the Protoss.

  Originally Mike’s plan was to get back to the city, catch a ship off-planet, and then let Handy Anderson sort out the details of his unauthorized sojourn once Mike got back to Tarsonis. But the idea of leaving Raynor to rot in some marine prison churned at him. The marshal was one of the aw-shucks good-old-boys who seemed to thrive out here on the Fringe Worlds, but he wasn’t a bad sort. And he had saved Mike’s bacon at Anthem.

  Briefly the face of Lieutenant Swallow rose in his memory. She had helped him, and he had failed her. Despite what Raynor had said, he felt responsible. Would he fail Raynor as well?

  “Fail is such an ugly word,” he muttered, but he knew he couldn’t leave the lawman to Duke’s tender mercies. By the time he hit the city limits, he knew he had to get a shuttle to the Norad II and have it out with the colonel.

  Hell, maybe we’ll get adjoining cells, he thought.

  The city was completely evacuated now, and there wasn’t even a cordon at the main entrances. The streets were abnormally empty, and not even other Confederate troops were present. Flying down the empty streets, Mike wondered what had happened to the café crowd at the press pool. Were they still there, or had they been evacuated to some dump in the wilderness as well?

  There was a whump, and the Vulture hover-cycle rocked beneath him. Looking back, he saw that another Vulture had crept up on him and nudged his left rear bumper. Behind the polarized window, Mike saw the silhouette of the driver point to his ear. The universal symbol for “Turn on your radio, idiot.”

  Mike toggled on the comm unit, and Sarah Kerrigan’s face appeared on the screen. “Follow me,” she said.

  “You trying to get me killed?”

  “That’s a stupid question, considering you’re already dead.”

  “What?!” Mike sputtered.

  “A report went out an hour ago. Said that some terrorists in stolen firebat armor strafed a bus full of reporters. They identified the victims by their badges. Congrats, you got top billing in the obituary.”

  “Oh, God.” Mike felt the weight shift in his stomach. Rourke had his press badge. The idea that the construction scandal had finally caught up with him, this far out, crossed his mind.

  Kerrigan laughed. “This is no building-supplies scandal back on Tarsonis, newshound. Somebody here wanted you dead. You know too much, Mr. Liberty.”

  Mike’s stomach churned. “What do you mean?”

  Frustration crackled over the link. “I mean that your report from the field rought the house down on the local forces. The fact that they are fighting the Zerg and the marines aren’t is painfully obvious, so Duke had the local troops arrested and shipped off-planet. He wants the place defenseless. Isn’t it obvious? If you really want to help the locals, follow me.”

  Mike shook his head. “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll run you off the road and drag you off,” crackled the comm link. “Jeez, you drive like someone’s grandmother.”

  With that Kerrigan pulled her Vulture ahead and took a quick left. Liberty followed, suddenly painfully aware that he took the corners much too wide.

  They headed for a district full of warehouses, some of them now nothing more than empty husks. Kerrigan’s Vulture slipped into the open door of one of them. Mike pulled his inside as well, and Kerrigan ran down the door behind him.

  “Bumping me like that was pretty dangerous,” Mike said, dismounting from the Vulture. “You must think yourself a pretty good driver.”

  “I am. I’m also very good with knives. And guns, too. You steal that?” she asked, looking at the bike.

  “Got it from a friend.”

  “Your friend is hard on his equipment. This is a safe house. There’s one more thing before we go on.”

  Before Mike could react, Kerrigan snaked out a hand and grabbed his press tags. With a single smooth motion she tossed them in the air, pul
led a hand-held laser, and fried the tags at the top of their arc. The melted remains landed with a sodden splot on the concrete floor.

  “We think the press tags can be traced. That would explain why bad things happened to the guy with your original tags. Eventually they’ll figure out that they left a reporter alive, and they’ll come after you then. Now come back here. I have to set up some equipment.”

  She turned, leaving Mike sputtering. She started moving some equipment in the back.

  “Look, you know you can’t trust Duke’s forces right now, so will you listen to my side, at least?” She bent over to check some plugs.

  Mike recognized the equipment. “That’s a full holo setup.”

  “State of the art,” Kerrigan said with a smile. “My commander has been fortunate enough to get the best.”

  “The best indeed, if he can afford to keep his own telepaths.”

  Kerrigan froze for only a fraction of a second, but enough to make Mike smile. “Yeah, well,” she said. “I don’t do enough to hide that, do I?”

  “I was willing to buy your being a big fan of mine,” Mike said, “but just happening to find me while I was coming into the city, well, that was a bit too much to believe. I thought that only Confederate Marine ghost-troopers were telepaths.”

  “Well, I did that job once. Got tired of it and left.”

  “I don’t need to be a telepath to know there’s more to the story than that.” Mike shrugged in a disarming way, then added, “It’s not a job you retire from. I also thought that telepaths had inhibitors on them to protect us normal folk.”

  “It’s the other way around,” said Kerrigan, a taste of bitterness in her voice. “The inhibitors also keep your nasty little thoughts out of my mind. It’s tough when you know everyone around you is untrustworthy at some level.” She looked hard at Mike, her green eyes flashing. “The bathroom’s in the back corner. No, it doesn’t have a window you can sneak out of. I don’t want to shoot your knees out to keep you here, but you know I will.”

  “Why me?” muttered Mike as he headed for the john.

  “Because, you idiot,” shouted Kerrigan from across the room, “you’re important to us. Now powder your nose and get back here.”

  When Mike returned she had finished the setup for the holographic rig. It had a full projection plate, but could fit into a couple suitcases.

  “It’s not, you know,” she said as he approached.

  “Not an advantage to a reporter to read minds?” Mike was catching onto the odd shorthand of talking to a telepath.

  “No.” Kerrigan shook her head, “Most of what I get is off the surface, and even that is usually pretty slimy. Animal needs and all that crap. And secrets. Damn it, my entire life has been filled with secrets. It gets real old, real fast.”

  “Sorry,” Mike said, suddenly realizing he didn’t know if he meant it or not.

  “Yeah, you meant it. You just don’t know you meant it. And no, I don’t have any cigarettes. Here we go.”

  She stroked a switch and spoke softly into a microphone. The lower plate of the holographic transmitter whirred softly, and a humanoid aura took form in the light. It seemed to be carved out of the light itself, a massive man, broad-shouldered, in quasi-military uniform. His face resolved into bushy eyebrows, a craggy nose, a huge mustache, and a prominent chin. His hair was lack with gray stripes, but still was more black than gray.

  Mike recognized him at once from dozens of wanted posters across the Confederacy.

  “Mr. Liberty, I am so glad you could join us,” said the glowing figure. “I am Arcturus Mengsk, leader of the Sons of Korhal. I would like to ask you to join us.”

  CHAPTER 7

  DEALS

  Arcturus Mengsk. There’s a name that is synonymous with terror, betrayal, and violence. A living example of the ends justifying the means. The assassin of the Confederacy of Man. The hero of the blasted world of Korhal IV. King of the universe. A savage barbarian who never let anything or anyone get in his way.

  And yet, he is also charming, erudite, and intelligent. When you’re in his presence you feel that he’s really listening to you, that your opinions matter, that you’re someone important if you agree with him.

  It’s amazing. I have often wondered if men like Mengsk don’t carry around their own reality-warping bubbles, and all who fall in are suddenly transported to another dimension where the hellish things he says and does suddenly make sense.

  At least, that’s the effect he always had on me.

  —THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

  THE GLOWING FIGURE PAUSED FOR A MOMENT, then said, “Is there something wrong with our connection, Lieutenant?”

  Kerrigan responded, “We read you loud and clear, sir.”

  “Mr. Liberty, can you hear me?” Arcturus asked.

  “I can hear you,” said Mike. “I just don’t know I can believe what I’m hearing. You’re the most hated man in the Confederacy.”

  Arcturus Mengsk chuckled and folded his hands over his broad, muscle-flat belly. “You honor me, but I must reply that I am only the most hated man among the Confederacy’s elites. Those elites who make it their mission to keep everyone else under their thumbs. Those who choose to think otherwise are cast out. I have survived that casting out, and as such I am a danger to them.”

  Mengsk’s words washed over Michael Liberty like warm honey. The man’s manner and voice screamed “politician” at every turn. Here was a creature who would be at home in the Tarsonis City Council, or among the confabs and social retreats of the Old Families of the Confederacy.

  “I know a lot of reporters who would like to talk to you,” Mike said.

  “You among them, I hope? I’ve been a fan of your work for many years. I must admit my surprise at seeing your illustrious name attached to mere military reporting.”

  Mike shrugged. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Of course,” said Mengsk, another smile appearing beneath his bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. “And similarly, I fear my own vagabond lifestyle has prevented a suitable interview from being set up. The few that have been managed were quickly spoiled by the Confederacy. I think you understand what I mean.”

  Mike thought of Rourke, dying with Mike’s press tags, and of Raynor’s people, locked up in orbit, and the refugees waiting for dropships that didn’t seem to be appearing. He nodded.

  “I know my reputation precedes me, Michael.” Mengsk brought himself up short. “May I call you Michael?”

  “If you want to.”

  Another half-concealed smile. “And I must tell you that this reputation is fully deserved. I am, by Confederate lights, a terrorist, an agent of chaos against the old order. My father was Angus Mengsk, who first led the people of Korhal IV in rebellion against the Confederacy.”

  “And paid for it with the death of the planet.”

  Arcturus Mengsk turned somber. “Yes, and I carry their ghosts with me every day of my life. They were branded rebels and revolutionaries by the Confederates, but, as you well know, it is the victors who are given the luxury of writing the histories.”

  Mengsk paused for a moment, but Mike didn’t leap in, either to agree or disagree. At length Mengsk said, “I make no apologies for the actions of the Sons of Korhal. There is blood on my hands for my actions, but I have yet to reach the 35 million lives that the Confederacy claimed on Korhal IV.”

  “Is that a target number?” Mike asked, looking for a chink in the politician’s armor.

  He expected a flash of anger, or a quick rebuttal. Instead, Mengsk gave a brief chortle. “No. I cannot hope to compete with the merciless bureaucracy of the Confederacy of Man. They wave the banners of Old Earth, but no ancient government would have tolerated the inhumanity that the Confederacy considers business as usual. And those who would raise the alarm are either silenced by violence or shamed into complicity through comfort.”

  “That would be us in the press,” stated Mike, thinking of Handy Anderson’s nosebleed office. />
  Arcturus Mengsk shrugged. “The shoe very well may fit, though I will not press the point. I know that you, for one, are a rare individual who has not shrunk from always seeking the truth.”

  “So, all this”—Mike waved at the equipment and Kerrigan—“is to set up an interview opportunity?”

  Again the easy laugh. “There will be time for interviews later, but there are more pressing matters at the moment. You know the refugee situation in the hinterlands?”

  Mike nodded. “I’ve visited a few of them. They’ve emptied the cities, and the people are now waiting in the wilderness for the Confederacy dropships to come for them.”

  “And what would you say if I told you there would be no such ships coming?”

  Mike blinked, suddenly aware that Kerrigan was looking at him. “I’d have a hard time believing that. They may be delayed, but they wouldn’t abandon the populace here.”

  “Its true, I’m afraid.” Mengsk sighed. Mike wished for some long-distance telepathy himself to dig underneath the man’s well-mannered outer mantle. “None are en route. Indeed, Colonel Duke has been very busy for the past few days uprooting the Confederate military structure here, preparing to retreat at the first appearance of the Protoss, or the overwhelming success of the Zerg.”

  “What do you know about the Protoss and the Zerg?” Michael asked sharply.

  “More than I want to admit,” Mengsk said with a grim smile. “Suffice it to say that they are ancient races, and that they hate each other. And they have little or no use for the human race, either. In that way they are very much like the Confederacy.”

  “I’ve seen both the Zerg and the Protoss at work,” Mike said. “I have a hard time believing that they are like anything human.”

  “Even though the Confederacy plans to abandon the population of Mar Sara? To let the Zerg overrun them from below, or the Protoss vaporize them from above? This system is nothing more than a giant petri dish to the bureaucrats on Tarsonis, where they can watch these alien races duel and plan how to save their own hides. Can you, as a man, stand aside and watch this happen?”