STARCRAFT™: LIBERTY’S CRUSADE Page 8

  Mike thought of the deadly, radiant rainbows on the surface of Chau Sara. “You have a solution,” he said, making the words a statement, not a question. “And this solution somehow involves me.”

  “I am a man with great but not unlimited resources,” said Arcturus Mengsk, suddenly with the intensity of a gathering storm. “I have my own ships en route to ferry as many people as I can out of the system. Kerrigan has located the bulk of the camps and spread sufficient anti-Confederate ideas that we may be welcomed as heroes. I have been in contact with the fragments of this planet’s government. But I need a friendly face to reassure them that we do indeed come in peace.”

  “And that’s where I come in.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Mengsk repeated. “Your reputation precedes you as well.”

  Mike thought about it, conscious of both the Protoss above and the Zergs below. “I won’t fashion propaganda for you,” he said at last.

  “I’m not asking you to do so,” said Mengsk, spreading his hands wide. Welcoming him.

  “And I report what I see.”

  “Which is more than the Confederacy allows you now, under their military strictures. I would expect no less from a reporter of your caliber.”

  Another pause. Mengsk ended it by saying, “If there’s anything I can do to help you further . . .”

  Mike thought of Raynor’s men. “I have some . . . associates . . . in Confederate custody.”

  Mengsk raised an eyebrow at Kerrigan. She said, “Local militia and law enforcement officers, sir. They were captured and secured in a prison ship. I can find the location.”

  “Hmmm. Ask no small favors, eh, Michael?” Mengsk scratched his chin, but even over the connection, Mike knew the man had already made up his mind. “All right, but you have to help with it. But first . . .”

  “I know,” Mike said with a shrug. “I have to write your bloody press release.”

  “Exactly,” confirmed Mengsk, his eyes twinkling. “If we’re agreed, then I’ll let Lieutenant Kerrigan take care of the details.”

  And with that the light-wrapped figure evaporated.

  Mike let out a deep breath. “You still reading my mind?” he asked at last.

  “It’s hard not to,” Kerrigan said levelly.

  “Then you know I don’t trust him.”

  “I know,” answered Mengsk’s lieutenant. “But you trust that he’ll live up to his side of the bargain. Come on, let’s get started.”

  The prison ship Merrimack was an old relic, a Leviathan-class battlecruiser that had been stripped of everything useful, save for life support, and even that was quirky and unreliable. Even its drive had been disengaged once it had warped in, and it had been towed to its station high above Mar Sara’s northern pole. Its holds were filled with unarmed men, prisoners who had been seized for various reasons and who were considered too dangerous to leave on the surface. There were a lot of the homegrown planetary militia up here, along with the marshals and not a few outspoken local leaders.

  What the collection of prisoners, stashed away behind locked bulkheads, did not know was that they were being overseen by a skeleton crew, a fraction of the normal staff of such a prison hulk. Most of the important ranking officers had already been shuttled off, and of the major ships that had visited Mar Sara in the past few days, only the Norad II still remained in orbit.

  Captain Elias Tudbury, the remaining ranking officer on board the Merrimack, growled as he scanned the docking ring monitors. The last shuttle was overdue by at least an hour, and if the radio scuttlebutt was correct, the Protoss with their lightning weapons were due any time now.

  And Captain Tudbury had not survived long enough to command a prison ship by exposing himself to danger of any stripe. Now, as the shuttle edged its way toward the dock, he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Beside him the comm officer was monitoring frequencies.

  The sooner the shuttle arrived, Tudbury thought, the sooner he and his few stragglers could get away from here, leaving the prisoners to their fate.

  The speaker crackled over his head. “Prison Shu . . . port five-four . . . requ . . . sting clear . . . for docking. Passphrase . . .” The rest was lost in static.

  The comm officer tapped his headpiece and said, “Repeat transmission, five-four-six-seven. I say again, repeat transmission.”

  The speaker continued to crack and spark. “. . . ison shuttle . . . six-seven. Requesting clearance . . . king. Pass . . .” More static.

  “Come again, five-four-six-seven,” said the comm officer. Tudbury was practically exploding with anxiety, but the comm officer’s voice was soft and mechanical. “Please repeat.”

  “Interferen . . .” came the response. “We wi . . . pull off and tr . . . gain later.”

  “No you don’t,” said Tudbury, reaching past his officer and flicking a switch. “Shuttle five-four-six-seven, ya’ll are cleared for docking. Get your ass in here and get us off this tub!”

  The hydraulics hissed as the two ships linked, while the communications officer pointed out the violation of standard protocol.

  “This is a nonstandard situation, son,” said Tudbury, already halfway to the dock, his duffel already packed and swinging behind him. “Grab your gear and spread the word. We’re off this here wreck!”

  The airlock slid open, and Captain Tudbury was looking down the barrel of a large-bore slugthrower. At the operating end of the slugthrower was a lean man with a ponytail who looked like someone Tudbury had seen on UNN.

  “Boo,” said Michael Liberty.

  It took a mere ten minutes to overpower the rest of the crew, most of whom were armed only with their duffels and a great desire to leave, and another twenty to convince them to reengage the warp engines and limp the Merrimack out of planetary range. Raynor and his men took the shuttle with Liberty.

  “I’ll admit,” said former marshal Raynor, “that when I told you to do something, I didn’t expect this.”

  Mike Liberty lushed. “Let’s just say I made a deal with the devil, and it worked out to our benefit.”

  As if on cue, Mengsk’s broad face filled the shuttle’s viewscreen. “Congratulations, Michael. We must report success as well with our endeavor. We have been welcomed with open arms by the people of Mar Sara and even now our ships are evacuating the refugees. I have come to understand that even Colonel Duke is unwilling to fire on ships filled with innocents, and the turn of events has vexed him dearly.”

  Raynor leaned toward the screen. “Mengsk? This is Jim Raynor. I just want to thank you for your help in getting us off that hulk.”

  “Ah, Marshal Raynor. Michael apparently thinks very highly of you and your men. I was wondering if you would be willing to help me in a small matter.” Mengsk’s smile filled the screen.

  “Now wait a minute, Mengsk,” said Mike. “We made a deal here, and we both did our part.”

  “And that bargain is done, Michael,” continued the terrorist leader who had saved the population of a planet. “But now I want to offer a similar arrangement to the former marshal and his men. Something that, I hope, will be beneficial to all our peoples.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ZERG AND PROTOSS

  It would be easy to declare that Arcturus Mengsk was a master manipulator, which he was, or that he regularly deceived others, which was true as well. But it would be a mistake to deny all personal responsibility in falling into his web.

  It seems now the height of folly ever to have dealt with the man, but think of the situation when the Sara system died. You had the mindless beasts of the Zerg on one side, and the unholy fury of the Protoss on the other. And in the middle you had the criminal bureaucracy of the old Confederacy of Man, which was willing to write off the population of two planets in order to learn more about its enemies.

  With such a surplus of devils in the universe, what did it matter if there was one more?

  —THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

  THE JACOBS INSTALLATION WAS BUILT INTO THE side of a
mountain on the far side of Mar Sara from its major cities. It wasn’t listed in any planetary archive that Michael Liberty had found, but Mengsk knew about it.

  Somewhere in the Jacobs Installation there was a computer with data in it. Mengsk said he didn’t know what the data was, but he knew it was important. And he knew that he needed it. And he knew that Raynor would go get it for him.

  All of this made Mike wonder what else Mengsk knew. It also made the reporter think about other deep craters on Chau Sara. Had there been similar locations on the other planet, unknown to most humans but beacons to the Protoss? Had Mengsk known about these as well?

  Liberty suddenly felt as though he were at the epicenter of a bomb site, and the countdown had already begun.

  The planet was already unraveling. He could see the devastation from the screens on the dropship that brought Raynor and his combat troops in. Miles of former farmland was now overrun with the creep, a pulsing living organism that covered the earth and sent tendrils deep into the rock beneath. Odd constructs dotted the landscape like twisted mushrooms, and scorpion-like creatures pulled down and consumed anything in their path. He could see packs of the skinned-dog zerglings, herded by the larger snake-beast hydralisks. And once, on the horizon, there was a flight of things that looked like winged organic cannons.

  The creep had not reached the Jacobs Installation yet, but the strange Zerg towers were already on the horizon. The front gates were open, and men were trying to flee the complex. The dropship came under fire as it deployed Raynor and his troops. Even in the relative safety of a low-grade technician’s combat suit, Liberty hung back.

  I’m not doing this for Mengsk, he told himself. I’m doing it for Raynor.

  The guards were more interested in flight than fight, and Raynor’s troops scattered them easily. Michael Liberty followed the hulking armored forms into the base itself.

  The resistance stiffened as soon as they entered. Defensive guns were mounted in the wall, and popup turrets erupted at every corner. Raynor lost two men before he got cautious.

  “We need to find some control computer,” said Mike.

  “Yeah,” Raynor agreed. “But I’m willing to bet it’s on the far side of those guns.”

  And with that he was out in the corridor, spraying spikes in a wide arc, hitting targets that had been unseen a moment ago. Mike followed as close as he dared, his own gauss rifle at the ready, but by the time he rounded the corner Raynor was standing in a smoking hallway. Charred emplacements scorched the walls and floor.

  Another hundred feet and another intersection. And another turret popping up from the floor like a mechanical gopher, spraying the hallway.

  Raynor and Liberty dodged into one doorway, three others of the squad into another. One man wasn’t fast enough and was caught in the stream of bullets, his fall forward slowed by the continual impacts of the spikes against his helmet and shattered chest plate.

  “Okay, we need to take this one out,” said Raynor.

  “Hold on,” said Mike. “I think I found something.”

  It looked akin to a typical comm center, with zooming screens on either side and altogether too many buttons. But the screens showed what looked like a diagram of the installation itself.

  “It’s a map,” said Raynor.

  “Full marks,” said Mike. “Better yet, it’s a map that we can use.”

  Several areas already flashed red, marking where the assault team had already passed. Other regions were flashing green pips, including the one outside the door. Probably active defenses.

  “Right,” said Mike. “You know anything about computers?”

  “Had to replace a memory board on my Vulture once,” said Raynor.

  “Dandy.” Mike’s own experience consisted of repairing persnickety comm units in the field, but he didn’t say anything. He scanned the various buttons and toggles. All were numbered, but there was no master listing.

  He hit a toggle, and one of the green lights went out. He hit another and another vanished. He started flipping the toggles and mashing the buttons wildly. About fifteen seconds later the staccato in the hallway stopped.

  “Nice job,” said Raynor.

  “Let’s see what the others do.” Mike grabbed a small dial and turned it. Somewhere deep in the complex a Klaxon sounded, and there was a vibration under their feet.

  “What the Sam Hill was that?” said Raynor.

  “The sound of me pushing my luck too far,” said Mike.

  “So why did you do that?”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

  Raynor let out a frustrated sigh, then said, “Can you get the data we’re looking for off this terminal?”

  Mike shook his head, running a finger over the installation schematic. “Here,” he said. “There’s a separate system, not linked up to the mainframe.”

  “Think that’s it?”

  “Has to be. The best way to protect information from hackers is to completely separate the machine that it’s on. Basic computer security one-oh-one.”

  “Then let’s go whack some varmints,” said Raynor, signaling to the survivors of the squad.

  “Yeah,” Mike said with a laugh. “Let’s git them ‘varmints.’ ”

  They stepped out, then dodged back immediately as another volley of spikes ricocheted down the hallway.

  “Liberty!” Raynor bellowed. “I thought you got all the gun emplacements!”

  “Those aren’t emplacements, Jim,” Mike shouted back, squatting in the doorway. “Those are live targets.”

  Indeed, there was a pair of white-armored forms now at the crossroads, their combat armor similar to Mike’s own save for color. They carried their own gauss rifles and were spraying the corridor.

  Mike brought his own weapon up and leaned forward for a shot. A white-armored specter hovered in his crosshairs.

  And Mike found he could not shoot. His target was a man, a living human. He could not shoot.

  The target in white armor harbored no such compunctions, and let loose a burst. The door frame splintered under the assault as Liberty rolled back into the room.

  “What happened?” Raynor shouted. “They in cover?”

  “They . . .” Mike began, then shook his head. “I can’t shoot them.”

  Raynor frowned. “You took out a Zerg with a shotgun. I saw you.”

  “That was different. These are humans.”

  Mike expected the admission to disgust the lawman, but instead Raynor merely nodded and said, “That’s okay. Lots of folks have a problem with shooting other people. The good news is that they don’t know you don’t want to shoot them. Fire a little over their heads. That will spook ‘em.”

  He pushed Mike back toward the door. Across the hallway the other two marines were trading shots with the white-armored forms.

  Mike rolled out of the doorway, targeted the one on the right, raised his gauss rifle just a hair, and let off a burst. The white form dropped into a crouch, while his companion brought his own weapon around and dropped to one knee.

  Despite himself, Mike smiled. Then the chest of the soldier he had fired above blossomed in a fountain of blood. His companion brought his own weapon around, but too slowly. His head vaporized in a red mist as visor and helmet shattered.

  Mike looked up to see Raynor standing above him, leaning out of the doorway. He had taken the two enemy troopers out with single shots.

  Raynor looked down and said, “I understand if you have a problem shooting people. Fortunately, I don’t. Now let’s go.”

  The wall and floor guns were silent now, and the team was practically running through the halls. In his lighter armor, Mike was in front.

  He suddenly realized that this was not the smartest place to be.

  Then he rounded the corner and sprawled over a zergling.

  In one graceless swoop Mike skidded forward, tumbling over the top of the skinless beast. He could feel the creature’s muscles pulse and shudder beneath him as he inadv
ertently vaulted over it. He landed on his shoulder and felt pain ratchet through the right side of his body.

  “Zerg!” Mike shouted. “Kill it!” He ignored the pain and twisted his rifle around, praying it hadn’t been damaged in the fall.

  “Crossfire!” Raynor bellowed. “We’ll hit each other!”

  There was a silent moment in the hallway— Raynor’s troops on one side, Mike on the other, the Zerg in the middle. This close, Mike could smell the creature’s fetid reath. Its very skin seemed to exude decay and rot.

  The zergling turned toward the squad, then toward the reporter, as if trying to determine which to attack first. Finally some organic circuit closed in its twisted mind and it came to its decision.

  It leapt at Liberty with a chittering cry, its claws extended.

  Mike dove forward, underneath the leap, and raised his gauss rifle. He caught the creature in the belly, spearing it and catching the beast’s own momentum. Beast and barrel rose in a slow arc above him.

  At the top of the arc Mike pulled the trigger, and a volley of spikes splattered the zergling. Those that passed through its body embedded in the metal ceiling of the hallway.

  Mike sputtered as he was drenched in the beast’s ichor. Raynor ran up.

  “What are Zerg doing here?” Raynor asked.

  “Maybe they’re after what we’re after?” Mike suggested.

  “Let’s find that information, now.” Raynor waved the remains of the team forward.

  “Let’s find a shower,” Mike muttered, wiping the Zerg’s guts off his stained armor.

  The complex had a few surprises left. The passage widened into a larger room. Three more zerglings were within, brought down in rapid fire before they could react. Along one wall was a line of cages, all open. They gave off the fetid smell of the zerglings.

  “They were keeping them here,” said Raynor. “Pets? Studies?”

  “And for how long?” Mike reached the isolated computer station and started hitting buttons. “Christ. Look at this.”

  “The information?”