Starcraft II: Flashpoint Page 9

  Valerian was smiling a little. “So how did the two of you meet?”

  “Oh, let’s not get into all that,” Matt said quickly.

  Mira’s grin widened. “He likes to tease me,” she said, but it was obvious to anyone that it was Mira doing the teasing. “He doesn’t write, he doesn’t call . . . but we are here now, and we shall make up for lost time, yes?”

  Matt nodded without enthusiasm. This never gets old, Jim thought. Mira was as far from a heartbroken maiden as you could get, and the two were most definitely “husband and wife” in name only. Even so, the affection she had for Matt was obviously real, if nothing more than playful.

  “I hate to interrupt,” Jim said, “but I believe Matt—er, Matthew told you that we have a very ill woman who needs medical attention and a quiet place to rest up and heal.”

  Mira turned to him, still leaning against Matt but all business now. “He did. He was also very cryptic about the nature of the illness and the identity of this . . . woman.”

  In the end, Mira Han was a mercenary. She was taking a terrible risk in hiding them at all. Matt, Raynor, and Valerian had all decided that she needed to know some things but not others. Valerian had agreed to reveal his own identity, in light of the fact that she should know at least one main reason the Dominion might choose to seek them out. But all of them felt that naming Sarah Kerrigan would be to seal her death warrant—if not from Mira herself, then from others who felt they had a score to settle. Marines, with their biologically wired loyalty, were one thing. The Raiders, with their devotion to Jim and his choices, were also completely trustworthy. But Jim wasn’t about to trust Mira’s people that far. As Queen of Blades, Kerrigan had been nigh unstoppable. Even as Sarah Kerrigan, ghost, she could have defended herself just fine, thank you very much. But the woman in sick bay was weak and vulnerable. Pinching an IV tube closed could kill her. It was difficult, almost impossible, to think of her this way, but Jim knew that for the first time, she was utterly dependent on him. And he would not let her down.

  “We all got our secrets,” Jim said.

  “Ma’am,” said Valerian, smiling charmingly, “we’ve dealt with you in good faith. I’ve revealed my identity, and surely you know that places me utterly in your hands. You could easily send a message to the Dominion and tell my father that you have us. But Matthew assures us that we can trust you. Please—grant us the same courtesy.”

  She remained unmoved, gazing at Jim and Valerian with her unnerving cybernetic eye. Horner said, “Mira—we can’t talk about her right now. Just trust me, okay?”

  The hard face softened. “Matthew, you are a good man, and I see good men oh so very rarely. All right. For you, not only do I hide, I don’t ask questions.”

  Relief washed over Jim. “Thank you, Mira.”

  “Mmmmm,” she said noncommittally. “I can offer you a safe house where this . . . woman . . . can be tended to. I have contacted some doctors, but I cannot imagine they would be superior to those aboard your ship, Mr. V. Still, they are at your disposal. The place is isolated, quiet, and very safe.”

  “Sounds just about perfect.”

  “Good. I will send someone round for you in about an hour or so. In the meantime, Matthew and I have some catching up to do,” said Mira, slipping a possessive arm through Matt’s. Matt cast a longing look at Jim, who merely shrugged and mouthed, “You’re on your own.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  An hour later, as Mira had promised, a small system runner appeared for Jim and Sarah. Jim was clad in grungy, nondescript clothing—which was to say, dressed as usual—and carried a blanket-swaddled Sarah. He took care that the blanket covered her strange-looking “hair.” The exterior of the system runner looked like it had seen better days, but on the inside it looked fairly new, if a trifle ill-used. Jim gently eased Kerrigan inside, tucking the blanket around her and making sure it didn’t slip off her head. She was awake but still groggy with drugs.

  “Where exactly are we going?” he asked the pilot.

  “Outside the city,” he said. “The safe house is well protected. You and your lady friend shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  Jim frowned. An idea fluttered into his mind, but he instantly dismissed it. It couldn’t possibly be that place.

  They lifted off and left the junkyard that was a city behind. Jim again marveled, as he had the last time he was here, that it only seemed as though the entire planet was a trash pit. Metallic hues gave way to green grass and brown earth and even the open stretch of blue that indicated a lake.

  And then he saw it. His eyes widened. It was more rundown than it had been, but it was unmistakably—

  “That’s Scutter O’Banon’s complex, ain’t it?” he asked.

  The pilot laughed. “Sure is. How’d you know?”

  “We—I . . . was here before. A long time ago.” They had been in trouble, of course—when were they not?—but somehow Jim knew the man he had been back then hadn’t appreciated how he had been free of cares.

  Including bearing the burden of murdering his best friend.

  He was beginning to wish he hadn’t come. There was only one ghost for him in Deadman’s Rock, but it was one too many.

  “Don’t look so different from up here, but once you get down, you’ll see that a lot’s changed,” the pilot said, adding, “Mira ain’t O’Banon.”

  “And thank God for that,” Jim said. He chuckled and shook his head ruefully. So—pink-haired Mira Han was the one who had taken over after Ethan Stewart—O’Banon’s successor—had been turned into a zerg. Raynor had had no idea that her power base was so strong, and judging by what the pilot said, she liked it that way. He felt suddenly much better about their safety and the quality of care that would be provided to Sarah.

  The security was still in place, but the swimming pools had been filled in, and the gardens and orchards had been permitted to go to seed. The mansion, for such it had to be called, looked the same from the air, although the beautifully manicured lawn was a thing of the past.

  The landing field had been kept up, and Jim was surprised to see the same old-fashioned groundcar awaiting them. He was even more surprised that the driver had shocking pink hair.

  As Jim helped Sarah in and then took a seat himself, Mira turned and grinned at him. “You did not expect me!” she crowed.

  “No, I sure didn’t,” Jim said. He checked on Sarah, pulling the blanket around her again. She was still compliant, but the sedative would be wearing off soon. “Not in any of this. You fooled us right good, Mira—or should I be calling you Boss Lady Ma’am?”

  “Not if you value those rough good looks of yours, James,” she said. Sitting beside her was Matt, who actually looked as if he might be having something resembling a good time. “Have you ever been in a groundcar, James?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Here, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oho! So you knew either the late Scutter or the late Ethan,” she said. She drove the antiquated vehicle expertly, which surprised Jim, taking them on a smooth drive down a long, well-paved road. The trees Jim remembered looked about the same; a few years would not do much to change them.

  “I did know O’Banon, though it was not a happy acquaintance,” said Jim. “I am delighted you have stepped into his shoes.”

  “Because I am on your side?”

  “That,” Jim admitted, “and frankly, because you’re a hell of a better person than he could ever be.”

  She met his eyes in the rearview mirror, and they were somber. “Thank you, James,” she said quietly.

  Attempting to lighten the mood, Jim asked, “Hey, did you keep Randall on?” Phillip Randall had been O’Banon’s butler—elegant, poised, graying hair, sharp blue eyes. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, not Jim’s and Tychus’s scruffy appearances, nor Tychus’s request for girls. Tychus, for once, had been joking . . . Randall took it quite seriously.

  “I have heard stories about Phillip Randall,” said Mira, “but he is also dead. Did you know he was an
assassin?”

  Jim and Matt exchanged glances. Suddenly the precision with which Randall moved and the sharpness of those eyes took on an entirely different cast in Jim’s mind. A phrase Scutter O’Banon had uttered when angry with them came back to him: “Hell, boys, you’re lucky it’s Randall’s day off, or you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.” Jim’s eyes widened. He’d taken it as a joke . . . .

  “Uh, no, I was not informed of that. I just thought he was a damned good butler.”

  “He was that too. You will find doctors here to help your . . . woman . . . but I am afraid you must cook and clean for yourselves.”

  She pulled the groundcar up in front of the mansion. Jim was surprised at how clearly he remembered the place. He carried Kerrigan, still drowsy, in his arms as they walked up to the huge entry door. Mira tapped in a code, and the massive old door swung open.

  Here, at least, Jim’s memory differed from the present reality. In Scutter’s day, the old wood floors and beams had gleamed with careful, regular polishing, and the walls had been adorned with big-game trophies. Now, the room had fallen, if not into disrepair, at least into neglect. Dust lay thick on the heavy furniture. Most of the knickknacks that had cluttered the room—priceless antiques, but for Jim’s taste too many and too garish—were gone. So were the animal heads, which was a significant improvement.

  “I don’t live here,” Mira said. “This is just a place for people to come if they need to.”

  Jim shook his head at the thought of Scutter O’Banon’s cherished estate becoming a safe house. It was wonderful.

  The old wood creaked as they walked the uncarpeted floor to the curving staircase and ascended. Jim felt a jolt—the room in which he and Sarah would be staying had been the room assigned to Tychus.

  He really did wish he hadn’t come.

  Mira fished in one of the pockets of her vest and came out with an old skeleton key. The room was as large as he remembered, but as with the entrance hall, most of the décor had long since been sold. The light slanting in from the window was as pleasing as ever, and the bed was the same—large and canopied and, Jim assumed, comfortable.

  And just like that, it didn’t matter at all to Jim that this room had belonged to Findlay. It was a safe haven for the woman he loved, where she could rest and, hopefully, recover. Jim noticed that the side tables beside the bed he remembered had been removed and replaced by portable medical tables.

  Two men clad in white emerged from the sitting room, with the unmistakable superior expressions that some members of the medical profession often wore on their features. Jim adjusted Sarah in his arms and said, “I’m assuming I may rely on your doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  They exchanged glances. “We work for Mira Han,” one of them said. “But our first duty is to our patient.”

  “Is that a yes?” Jim pressed. He wanted to hear the words spoken. Sarah was too important.

  “Yes,” said the other. “Would you like it in writing?” he added sarcastically.

  “Yeah, actually, that’d be great,” said Jim, striding over and laying Sarah down gently on the bed.

  Matt looked a little worried, as if Jim’s brusqueness might offend Mira. Instead, she chortled. “Oh, James, you are so endearingly blunt. That is one reason I am so fond of you. I always know exactly where I stand with you.”

  “That’s how I aim to keep it,” Jim said, giving her a genuine smile. “I do appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

  “I know,” she said. “And I hope that Matthew and the charming Mr. V also appreciate it. And now, I will leave you and your little friend alone with the doctors. I hope they can help her. You can reach me through Matthew if you need anything.” She turned to Matt. “Would you like to come on a long, long drive with me? There are some pretty and private places still left here, you know.”

  “Don’t we have to get back to Mr. V?” Matt said, a little too quickly. “You promised to set him up with a secure channel.”

  “Oh, yes, so I did,” Mira said. “Hm. I imagine he is chafing a bit, is he not? Yes, let’s go and get him taken care of. Then we can have a nice drive.”

  She linked her arm with his and walked him out of the room. The doctors turned their attention to Sarah. One of them bent to pull back the blanket. Jim’s hand shot out to grab the man’s wrist.

  “Your promise,” he said. “Confidentiality.”

  “Of course,” the doctor replied, rather testily. Jim released him, sat back, and watched the man’s shock as he saw Sarah’s snake-like “locks” fall free. The two doctors stared at him.

  “Yeah, it’s her,” Jim said.

  “You brought us the Queen of Blades?” one of them said, looking at Jim in shock.

  “No. I brought you Sarah Kerrigan. And you’re going to give her the best damn medical care you’ve ever given anyone in your life.”

  Not for the first time, Jim felt a terrible pang at seeing Sarah so weak. All his memories of her had been of a strong and powerful woman, whether she went by the name Sarah Kerrigan or the title Queen of Blades. To see her fight was to witness a ballet of weaponry and mind and muscle, a poem to the beauty of controlled, directed violence. She was trained to kill, but he knew what it took out of her to do so. If she could accomplish her goals without becoming an angel of death, she would do so. Jim understood. It was his choice as well. Something Mengsk could never quite understand.

  And maybe that was why they had worked so well together—two superior killers who didn’t like to kill.

  2500

  “Boy, there ain’t nothing here to indicate anyone’s home, is there?” Jim asked as they approached the single moon of the gas giant known only as G-2275.

  Sarah threw him an amused glance. “That was the point of my briefing, Jim.”

  “Well, yeah, I know that, but it’s kinda different when you see it for yourself.”

  She quirked a red brow, then looked at the viewscreen. It was a completely unremarkable moon, surrounding a completely unremarkable planet. There was no indication at all that beneath the surface was one of the great technological hubs of the Confederacy.

  Sarah had briefed him, Mengsk, and Mike Liberty on the place earlier. After the victory on Antiga Prime, Mengsk was elated with his new toy, the psi emitter, that had enabled the rebels and much of the civilian population to escape with the Sons of Korhal, while the Confederacy’s presence on the planet fell to first zerg and then the ruthless purge enacted by the protoss. But reports had started coming in that the goliaths, the twelve-foot-tall walkers that turned a man into a giant, had been adapted and improved.

  Kerrigan freely admitted she was none too eager to repeat her psi-emitter performance, outrageously successful though it had been. She had convinced Mengsk that obtaining the plans of the upgraded goliaths would be more cost-effective, wide-reaching, and in the long run just as effective, and he had agreed. The tactical advantage the Confederacy had with the superior goliaths could prove to be a slow-growing but deadly one.

  She even knew the likeliest place where such plans were being developed. “I’ve been there before, about a year ago,” she said.

  “Doing what?” Jim had asked before he could think, and winced inwardly at the sharp look she shot him that said, What do you think? “Oh.”

  She didn’t elaborate on who or why, but simply continued. “They change the security codes religiously, of course. But there’s a particular mathematical algorithm they use. It’s complicated, but I know it. We can easily extrapolate it up to the hour.”

  “That seems foolish,” said Mike, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “You learn the formula, you can walk through the door any time.”

  “Do not underestimate the arrogance of those who think they have a foolproof system, Mike,” said Mengsk. “They are probably too busy patting themselves on the back for their cleverness to think about any danger.”

  “And don’t underestimate the ingenuity of fools,” quipped Jim. Sarah gave him a smirk, which he
had hoped she would do.

  “So, Sarah . . . you carried out a, uh, mission there once before. Think they’ll have beefed up their security?”

  “Doubtless,” Kerrigan said. “But from the psychological profiles I’ve studied, they still won’t have changed the algorithm. They will, however, probably have requested more than the dozen marines I had to contend with last time.”

  She’d been right, as she always was, on all counts. The smug bastards hadn’t bothered to change the algorithm. It was child’s play to obtain permission to dock, and once there, for an outlaw and a ghost to easily overpower the crew stationed in the docking bay and the two marines who had looked extremely bored before they had become extremely dead.

  And after that, the true dance began.

  The marines needed to be neutralized. If they were resocs, and they probably were, they would not stop fighting if left alive. Both Sarah and Jim realized that, and without a word to each other, went for the kill. This part of the dance was grim and joyless, but no less beautiful.

  Their arrival had been approved, so no alarms were blaring. Sarah had memorized the layout of the station, and she went first, a beautiful red-haired woman shimmering into seeming nothingness, transforming into an unseen and unheard weapon. He watched her vanish, counted to five, then fired at the first marine stationed ahead. She went down, but her two companions started firing. One of them lifted a hand and opened his mouth to speak.

  He died before he could utter a syllable, a single hole appearing in the chest of his combat armor as Sarah attacked from behind. Before the one remaining could even start to turn, he went flying across the corridor to slam into the bulkhead. He lay like a turtle on his back struggling to rise. Sarah materialized an instant later, ending the marine’s struggle, her blue-and-white form taut and tense, a lock of hair hanging over her eyes. She was indeed a deadly weapon, capable of handling multiple foes at a time, silencing them all with acts of murder and grace.