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  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.

  She frowned a little. Make that four complaints—no one had told her very much since they’d brought her here and put her in this very nice, comfortable, spacious room that was, in the end, still just a prison cell.

  Her stomach rumbled. They’d brought the chamber pot, but still hadn’t brought her anything to eat. She had no way of telling time, but knew she had been here several hours already. They had gotten her water; she reached for a bowl containing the precious liquid and took a sip.

  She heard the sound of the door opening and turned, expecting to see her protoss guard. Instead a stranger entered, a female who was clearly of high rank and well aware of it. She stood proudly, a commanding presence. The newcomer wore armor that Rosemary recognized marked her as a templar. Rosemary thought it was largely symbolic at first, as her gaze swept over this imposing figure. Good protection at the vulnerable backward bend of the knee and upper arms, and the sweep of gleaming metal that lifted like slender wings at the shoulder should effectively block blows to the throat. But the waist and thigh showed smooth gray flesh. Then again, if this was the head of the templar, which Rosemary suspected an “executor” was, this female probably would halt any attacker dead in his tracks before he got close enough to get in a blow.

  Rosemary had seen bits and pieces of armor on the Aiur protoss, but she now realized how dreadfully battle-worn that armor had been. What the protoss before her now wore was gleaming and bright, catching even the dim blue-purple light that came in from the window and the light from the glowing, gemlike spheres set into the armor itself. The dangling appendages that Rosemary knew were nerve cords and that definitively marked her as a traditional protoss and not one of the dark templar fell almost like long ropes of hair, with golden metal pieces adorning their ends. Beneath the armor, she wore a slender drape of fabric that looked very luxurious and soft, a night-black, velvety swath that protected her gray skin from the gleaming, gold metal.

  In her four-fingered hands, which still looked so very weird to Rosemary, she carried a shallow golden bowl that had some vaguely spherical things and a couple of long, grassy things in it.

  Rosemary did not attempt to hide her scrutiny, and she realized that the newcomer was in all likelihood sizing her up as well. At the moment, exhausted, hungry, and physically filthy as she was, Rosemary knew who’d win that competition. She decided she’d add the lack of a bath to her list of complaints.

  “Who are you?” Rosemary asked.

  The protoss placed the bowl down with almost ceremonial precision on the table, turned, and inclined her head. It wasn’t quite a bow, but it was a gesture of respect.

  “I am Executor Selendis,” she said. “I have come to query you as to the nature of your purpose on our world.” She indicated the bowl. “It has taken us no little effort, but we have located fruits and tubers that I believe you will be able to consume.”

  Rosemary eyed the contents of the bowl and hoped Selendis was right. She was starving. But even more than food, she hungered for information.

  “I’m Rosemary Dahl, and you know exactly why I am here. I get that you all live much longer than we do, and that protocol and ceremony and stuff mean a lot to you, but there’s not a lot of time for things like that right now.”

  Executor Selendis regarded the terran with luminous, unblinking eyes. “There is always time to do something the right way, Rosemary Dahl.”

  “It depends on whose definition of ‘right way’ you use.”

  Selendis half closed her eyes, tilted her head, and hunched her armored shoulders slightly in the gesture that indicated humor. “I suppose that it does. Do you wish to feed before we speak?”

  Feed. Like she was a pet, or an animal to be fattened for slaughter or something. Selendis narrowed her eyes; she’d read Rosemary’s thoughts, of course. Man, this was getting old.

  “I’ll skip the chow for now. Like I said, we don’t have a lot of time. What do you know so far?”

  “What the protoss who accompanied you have told me. I cannot verify their statements in the Khala as of yet. They are still ridding themselves of the influence of the drug with which the dark archon polluted them.” A great deal of distaste was in the words. Rosemary wasn’t sure if the detestation was directed at the drug or at the thought of the dark archon. Or maybe even at her.

  Rosemary glanced away. “The Sundrop, it’s…bad stuff, yeah.”

  Selendis nodded, slowly. Rosemary sensed the executor was still making up her mind about everything.

  “Let me get right to the point. I understand why your guards redirected my friend Jake. It was a smart thing to do. But unfortunately Jake has a preserver in his head with some really important information—information she was willing to kill a whole lot of people to protect. And because she’s inside my friend’s b
rain, he’s dying. She wants to put what she knows into a dark templar crystal, so the information isn’t lost. Jake wants her out of his head, so he can survive. And I want—”

  The rush of words was suddenly dammed as Rosemary slammed hard against the fact that she actually didn’t know what she wanted. A few years or months ago, she’d have named it in terms of creature comforts, personal challenges, and a whole lot of credits. Even recently, she was planning on using the archaeologist as her pass to safety and fortune. But now—

  The protoss before her waited patiently, with that freaky stillness that was so unsettling. Time to them was utterly different than it was to terrans. Their lifetimes lasted centuries; humans, generally less than one. They could afford to be patient.

  Rosemary opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I…I guess I want Jake to be okay.”

  “That is all?”

  “Well, I want to be okay too. I just—” Rosemary grinned self-deprecatingly. “I guess I just don’t know what that looks like anymore.”

  “I see.”

  Rosemary wasn’t at all sure that this gray-skinned, imposing female did. “Look—find Jake and bring him back so Zamara can get out of his head. How hard can it be?”

  “What you do not understand, terran, is that what you ask is a serious matter indeed. I must be certain that it is not just the right thing for your colleague, but the right thing for my people.”

  “It’s a damned preserver!” Rosemary cried in utter exasperation. “Isn’t helping her survive the right thing for your people?”

  “You yourself have confessed that you were subjected to a mind-altering drug,” Selendis continued, completely unperturbed by Rosemary’s outburst. “So were the others. Until the drug has cleared their systems and we can meet their minds and hearts in the Khala, I must wait and listen and learn.”

  Suddenly the import of the words struck Rosemary. “You mean—wait a minute. Are you saying that all the protoss who came through with me were the Tal’darim—the Forged? That there are none of Those Who Endure among them?”

  “No. There are not. Only those whose minds were affected by the Sundrop.”

  Rosemary sank down in one of the oversized chairs, stunned by the news. She thought of the moment when she was certain she was going to die at the hands—well, pincers, claws, whatever they had—of the zerg and the wave of protoss had descended to save them. She thought of their ready forgiveness of her almost-betrayal. She passed a shaking hand through her hair, telling herself it was exhaustion and lack of food that made this news so upsetting.

  “Your concern does you credit. Do not belittle it so.”

  Rosemary shot Selendis an angry glare. “Don’t read my mind. Wait for me to talk, damn it.”

  “I have not yet determined if you are truly friend or foe, Rosemary Dahl. I will do as I see fit to ascertain the truth. The others may have granted your request to not read your mind, but I have made no such promise.”

  Rosemary found her hands clenching into fists and forced herself to relax. “Listen to me, Selendis. You are wasting precious time. Jake and Zamara are in danger, and they’re out there alone. They could die while you wait for the others to detox to verify the same damn story we’re all telling!”

  The glowing eyes flashed, and Rosemary realized she’d finally gotten to Selendis. “There is no reason I should trust you, and every reason I should doubt you. We protoss have encountered only a few humans. And the single human female we have dealt with does not make us at all inclined to be welcoming.”

  There was nothing Rosemary could do, and she sagged slightly, still in the chair. “Fine. But I’ll tell you this. If Jake dies because you are all sitting around on your hands waiting for verification in the Khala, I personally will make sure you regret it.”

  Selendis had recovered herself and seemed as immovable as ever. “If it turns out you are telling the truth, and if Jacob Ramsey and the preserver he bears die because of my choice to delay, then I will regret it more than your human brain can possibly grasp. But I am the executor of the templar, and such decisions are mine to make and their outcomes my responsibility to bear. Is there anything else you require?”

  Jake…aw, damn it.

  “Nothing you’d be willing or able to give me,” Rosemary said, momentarily defeated.

  Selendis hesitated. “If the nourishment we have provided is inadequate, please inform your guard and we will make another attempt at providing you sustenance. In the meantime, I will send for hot water and fresh clothing for you. I hope to have your account of events verified shortly.”

  Rosemary supposed she should say thank you, but she was too angry and frustrated and heartsick. Instead she stayed put in the chair, arms folded, while Selendis left. Then, sighing, she grabbed a piece of what she thought was fruit and bit into it. It was mushy and bland, and she thought with regret of the sammuro fruit she and Jake had eaten on Aiur. Of the protoss who had risked their lives to gather it for them, and to hunt the prey whose flesh had provided necessary protein for the two terrans.

  According to Selendis, none of the Shel’na Kryhas had made it. They were all lying dead on Aiur.

  Didn’t look like they were Those Who Endure after all.

  CHAPTER 5

  VARTANIL HAD BEEN VERY YOUNG WHEN HIS LIFE had been so violently disrupted. Less than a century old, he had lived the peaceful, orderly life that all protoss on Aiur knew. His family was of the Furinax bloodline, and their specialty had been crafting objects of beauty. Others built the physical infrastructure of the cities and vessels and weapons; others crafted the armor as well as the bracers that channeled the templar’s psionic energy, manifesting it in powerful psi blades. But Vartanil had been a carver of the light-and-dark wood of the spotted shuwark tree, shaping the soft wood beneath clever hands, bringing forth the images of beasts both native and alien for the delight of the senses. Even as it dried, the wood smelled good—clean and healing. Vartanil polished it until it was smooth as a river stone to the touch, and he knew that the images he created delighted the eye.

  That had all been destroyed when the zerg came to Aiur.

  His family had gotten separated and had scattered, as many familial units had done in those horrifying days. Vartanil never knew what became of them, and could only hope that they were among the lucky ones who had made it off planet. With what he had come to regard as blind luck, Vartanil managed to elude the zerg, only to nearly be slain by a ravenous omhara. He had been saved by a small group of protoss, mostly khalai like himself, although there were a few templar, led by Alzadar, and a judicator, Felanis. His skin becoming mottled with his overwhelming emotions, Vartanil had sworn himself to the service of this group. As time passed, Felanis and Alzadar found other protoss, and their numbers swelled.

  Vartanil still helped with his carving talent, but this time, he carved arrows, bows, spears, throwing sticks. Weapons to stave off the wandering zerg and more natural, but no less dangerous, native animals. Alzadar taught him how to use the weapons he created. Vartanil knew he would never be a true warrior, not like Alzadar was, but he took pride in being able to help protect his new family.

  When conflict arose between the two factions, Vartanil left with Felanis’s group—“the Forged,” as they eventually called themselves. He had no animosity toward Ladranix or the other protoss, but he had vowed to follow Alzadar, who had been so kind to him.

  And when later Alzadar revealed the true horror of the “Benefactor” the gulled Forged had been following—a dark archon, perhaps the most powerful and dangerous the protoss had ever known, and who, far from protecting them, had been preying upon them—he had passionately rallied behind Alzadar to forsake the false benefactor and cleave again to his fellows.

  When it became clear that Alzadar was choosing to stay behind and die defending the terrans, buying the precious time they and the preserver Jacob carried needed, Vartanil almost panicked. Who would lead them? Who—how—

  “There is no protoss wis
er than a preserver,” Alzadar had said. “Follow Jacob. Protect him and the precious being he bears.” Vartanil promised to do so.

  Vartanil had been stunned beyond measure when he stumbled through the warp gate to arrive in Shakuras, only to discover that his new leader, the one he had promised the likely-now-dead Alzadar he would protect and aid, had been diverted to somewhere else entirely. And when Rosemary had come under verbal attack—Rosemary, a mere terran, non-telepathic, who had still managed to turn her back on the exquisite pleasure offered by the Sundrop—he had rallied to her defense immediately. She was the one closest to Jacob Jefferson Ramsey; he would help her.

  Vartanil and the others were separated from Rosemary shortly after their arrival. A small vessel had been summoned, to bear them to who knew where. He watched two templar, each over half a meter taller than the petite human female, flank her on either side as they marched her away. And then the first pangs of withdrawal hit, and Vartanil quite forgot about Rosemary, about Jacob, about Alzadar, or Aiur or Shakuras, indeed anything that was not the intense, all-consuming craving that racked his body.

  How long it took for the vile drug to clear his system, he did not know. Later, he would be told it took three full days. He was unconscious for most of it, waking now and then to find himself surrounded by other protoss sending him caring, concerned thoughts, bearing him to a place where starlight could fall upon him, giving him a lifeline while his body shuddered and hunched and his limbs flailed, sending him back into blessed unconsciousness for another brief respite.

  He blinked awake, clear-headed and feeling wrung out. He was in a room with several others of the Forged. Some slept on, others moved about quietly. Many stood at the large window, their faces turned up toward the life-giving rays of the cosmos, regaining their strength after the ordeal.