PROLOGUE
THE WORLD WENT DARK.
Not just a darkened sky—no mere nightfall could produce such utter darkness. No, this was the dark of captivity, confinement, blindness. Nothing visible, no light, no shadow, only a smothering visual shroud. A stark contrast to the blinding lights and sudden bursts of color from just before. I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. Where am I? Nothing but blankness answers, and an instant later a far larger question looms up, erasing the first. Who am I? A wave of panic rises deep within, bile carried along its edge, threatening to drown me as I realize I cannot remember.
I do not know who I am! Calm, I tell myself. Calm. I force the panic down, pushing it back by sheer will, refusing to let it envelop me. What do you remember, then? Nothing. No, brief flashes. A battle. A war. Horrid, horrible foes, great monstrous beings surrounding me, dwarfing me. Betrayal—though I cannot recall the act itself I can still taste the bitter realization of it. Abandonment. Desperation, a last frenzied struggle. The feel of sinewy flesh pinning me, choking me, killing me. The light fading around me as the numbness creeps in. And now this. Where am I? I stretch my senses to their limit, probing my surroundings. The results, though hazy and disjointed, form a single conclusion.
I am being carried. I can feel the movement, the gentle rocking motion. Not directly—something cushions me, envelops me, holds me all around. But that cushioning is moving, and me with it. I try lashing out, but my limbs will not cooperate. I feel sluggish, drained—drugged. Senses dulled, body leaden, but nerves oddly on fire. I am burning from within! My flesh crawls, creeps, melts, morphs—I have no control over my own form anymore. I am changing. Around me I can feel others shifting. They are not confined as I am—they are free to move, though their minds are oddly blunted. They are my captors, conveying me in my confinement. I can hear their thoughts, slithering across me, through me. A part of me recoils but another part—a newer part—welcomes their intrusion. Vibrates in Tune with their gibbering, allowing the patterns to resonate through me.
Changing me further, bringing me closer to those waiting just beyond. The part that is still me, the old me, recoils in horror. I cannot, I will not become one of these! I must escape! I must be free! My body is captive but my mind soars, reaching out for help, any help. I scream, desperate for anyone to hear. And, far away, I know that my pleas have been heard. Help me! Rubble lay everywhere, evidence of a city in flames, A world in demise. Buildings had fallen, vehicles were crashed and crushed, bodies littered the ground. A sign still stood near the edge of the destruction, its scorched surface reading "Welcome to"—the name New Gettysburg only a jagged hole with blackened edges. All manner of bodies, from the pale flesh of the Terrans to the smooth hides of the protoss to the sinewy blades of the zerg. People, those not yet dead and unable to evacuate, ran screaming, wailing for help. Some brandished weapons, crazed beyond rational thought, desperate to defend themselves and their families. Others cowered, weeping, unable to face the end of their world.
A few hid or ran, hoping to escape their fate. The Swarm ignored them. It had a higher agenda. The battle had not gone as expected. The Terrans had put up a strong fight but with fewer soldiers than anticipated. The protoss, the hated protoss, had appeared as always, gleaming in their battle suits and glowing in their arrogance, but had rapidly lost focus, dividing their attentions as if facing not one but two opponents. In some places the Swarm had sighted Terrans battling protoss, a strange but welcome sight. Yes, it had been a strange battlefield, the sides constantly shifting. But that was for the Overmind to consider and digest. For now, the conflict was over, the battle won. The remaining Terrans posed little threat and the protoss had vanished once the outcome was clear. For some reason they had not razed the planet, a fact which had allowed the Swarm to discover and claim a previously unexpected prize.
Now, their linked minds already turned from this conflict to those stretching out before them, the zerg marshaled their forces and prepared for their victorious departure. One brood cleared a path, removing any obstructions, whether flesh or stone or metal. A second brood followed close behind, its ranks protectively closed around its prize. Near the center several ultralisks moved in close formation, their back-spikes almost touching. Between them were four hydralisks, thick arms linked to support the large oblong they held. Through its rough, sticky shell the cocoon pulsed with light, though its faint glow was lost amid the fires and flares and explosions that had once been this city.
"Carefully," warned the brood's cerebrate, observing their progress through the overlord floating just above the sphere. Because the celebrant itself could Not move, the airborne overlords served as its eyes, ears, and mouth. "The Chrysalis must not be harmed!" Obedient to its will, the ultralisks shifted slightly closer and slowed their pace, allowing more time for the brood before them to open the way. Their heavy feet crushed bone and metal and wood without thought or pause as they lumbered on, shielding the Chrysalis from attack.
"We have it, Master," the cerebrate announced in the depths of its own mind. "We have your prize." "Good." The reply echoed from within, rising from the deep well of the zerg hive-mind. "You must watch over the Chrysalis, and ensure that no harm comes to the creature within it. Go now and keep safe my prize." Accepting the Overmind's orders as always, the cerebrate redoubled its efforts, making sure its brood's defenses were secure. The Chrysalis would be protected at all costs. On the zerg marched, the city burning around them.
At last the Swarm had gathered itself within a vast crater where once the city's vaunted lake had stretched. Now the surface was glass-smooth, seared by the force of the protoss's landing ships and unmarred by the heavy feet that had trekked across toward the city under siege. "We are ready, Master," the cerebrate declared, arraying its brood around the Chrysalis. "I am well pleased, young Cerebrate," the Overmind answered, the warm glow of its benediction washing over the cerebrate and through it all the members of its Swarm. "And so long as my prize remains intact, I shall remain pleased. Thus, its life and yours shall be made as one. As it prospers, so shall you. For you are part of the Swarm.
If ever your flesh should fail, that flesh shall be made anew. That is my covenant with all cerebrates." As the cerebrate swelled with pride, a great darkness descended upon the crater, a shadow of the mass that drifted into view high above them. Beyond the upper reaches of the planet's dying atmosphere hung a massive storm, a swirl of orange and violet gases that spun around strange flickering lights. They moved faster and faster, the colors merging in their fury, until the center of the storm collapsed in upon itsellf, light and color giving way to a shadowy circle far darker than even the space hovering beyond. "Now you have grown strong enough to bear the rigors of warp travel with the Swarm," the Overmind stated, its words sending a thrum of power through the Swarm. "Thus we shall make our exit from this blasted world and secure the Chrysalis within the Hive Cluster upon the planet Char."
As one the first brood rose, soaring high above the ruined city. They broke free of the planet's weak, fading grasp and approached the storm above, pulled into that yawning, beckoning darkness at its center, and vanished. The cerebrate felt their transit through then hive-mind link all zerg shared and allowed a spark of contentment to linger within its own mind. Then the Overmind summoned it as well, and the cerebrate called its brood together, linking them tightly for travel through the warp. They rose from the crater, letting the power of the Swarm fill them as they ascended, and soon the darkness had drowned out all thought, all sense, as it carried them across the vastness of space to their destination. And within the Chrysalis, faintly visible through its thick skin and viscous contents, a body writhed in pain. Though not conscious the figure within shifted, stirred, unable to lie still as the zerg virus penetrated every cell, changing DNA to match their own. Soon the Chrysalis would open and the new zerg would emerge. All the Swarm exulted with the Overmind. And, as they departed and Tarsonis died behind them, the mind trapped within the Chrysalis screamed.
CHAPTER 1
Jimmy!
"Aaahh!"
". . . but of course Mengsk—pardon me, Emperor Arcturus the First—claims this was all necessary. According to his spokesperson, the new Terran Dominion is doing everything necessary to remove the alien threat and make the colonies safe once more. It has been almost two months, however. In this reporter's opinion . . ."Jim Raynor lay back down, eyes staring up at the steel-gray ceiling. He ran one hand over the sweat drenched stubble atop his head and felt himself smile despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. A quick glance showed a hologram playing on his console, the tall, slender man captured within conveying his report with style despite or perhaps because of the battered leather trench coat and slouch hat he wore.
Mike Liberty. One of the few people left Jim called friend. Still reporting on Mengsk, even now. Still trying to get the truth to people who didn't want to hear it. " . . . still reeling from the loss of the Dylarian shipyards," Mike was saying now, and Raynor cocked his head to listen. "Arrest warrants have been issued for James Raynor," his friend was reporting, "though it is still unclear what happened. Why would the hero of Antiga Prime suddenly turn rogue? And why, after so many months saving lives, would he unleash such destruction on the Dylarian shipyards? According to the Dominion Raynor's attack could have crippled the fleet, putting everyone at risk in the case of another alien attack." He could hear Mike's voice dropping and knew what he would see if he glanced up—his friend was leaning forward slightly, a faint smile on his face, suddenly a friend confiding instead of a journalist reporting.
"Perhaps Emperor Arcturus is simply enraged at the thought that anyone could walk away from his new rule, particularly one of his most prized associates. And perhaps these charges have been manufactured as an excuse to pursue Raynor, rather than letting the public realize that perhaps the Emperor's mandate is not as universal as he might claim." "Heh!" He couldn't help laughing at that one. Go get em, Mike! But the hero of Antiga Prime? Where did he come up with this stuff? The accolade was as phony as most of Mengsk's charges against him. Of course, the charges were true this time. He had struck the shipyards. He'd had to.
When he'd belted Duke, Mengsk's favorite lackey, and stormed off the ship after Tarsonis, Raynor had expected to be on his own again or perhaps down to a handful of his troopers. He'd been unprepared for the wave of support walked with him, and he'd found himself the head of a small army. But they were an army without transport, and he knew that Mengsk would never let them leave so easily. So they'd needed ships, and quickly It had seemed safer to go after the shipyards and the vessels housed there than to try stealing active ships from those still loyal to Mengsk. It hadn't been that simple, of course. Mengsk had guessed his move—whatever else he could say about the man, the self-styled emperor was an excellent strategist—and had dispatched Duke in his own flagship, the Hyperion, to head them off. That had been a mistake.
Knowing he wouldn't get any more sleep now, Raynor sat up and rubbed at his jaw under his short beard, grinning at the memory. Duke was a capable ship commander, perhaps, and a good general for all his faults. But he was used to fighting on level ground, going up against fleets and scoutships. He hadn't been
prepared to wage a battle through the shipyards,
where his own men couldn't shoot for fear of hitting each other or a ship. Raynor had had no such compunctions. If a ship was holed they moved on to stealing the next one. He'd lured Duke in close, then used the shipyard's own machines to grapple the Hyperion and lock her in place. Then he and his boys had overrun it. Still laughing, Raynor stood up and crossed the room, heading for the handsomely appointed bathroom. Duke's short fuse had cost him the Hyperion, and Mengsk had received the first public defeat of his new Terran Dominion before he'd even declared its formation. Raynor had left with the Hyperion and a dozen other ships, his own private fleet, leaving Duke bound and gagged behind him. Of course, it had gone downhill from there. His smile dropping away, Raynor wrenched open the polished wooden door and glared at the room beyond. Marble sinktops, porcelain tiles, handsome faucets and fixtures—this place looked more like a fancy hotel than a ship captain's quarters. But they had been Mengsk's, and the big man did like his comforts. Raynor had been tempted to rip them all out, but it would have taken too long. He'd considered taking a simpler room for himself, but his crew had insisted.
He was the captain now and these were his quarters. So he put up with the luxury and did his best to concentrate on other things. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else to concentrate on. Since taking the ships Raynor had become Public Enemy Number One. Every soldier in the Dominion was hunting for him, and his face was plastered on every colony. Not that it bothered him—he knew better than most what Mengsk was capable of and what he did to those loyal to him, and had no desire to go back. Being the law didn't change anything. You stood by your people or you weren't worth standing by. Raynor honestly believed that, and Mengsk's betrayal had made his own desertion easy. The question, however, was what to do after he deserted. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, since he'd planned to go off alone. But having others with him changed that. They looked up to him, depended upon him, sat patiently waiting for his orders. And he didn't have any. Oh, they'd stolen the ships, of course. And they'd hit a few outposts, singed a few patrols. But he didn't know what to do next. He didn't know where he was going. It had been six weeks and he still had no idea. All those years as a marshal, Raynor had told himself he was independent, self-sufficient. It had been true, at least in part. He'd survived on his own resources, acted on his own judgment. His mandate had been loose enough and broad enough to give him a lot of freedom. But there had been a mandate: to protect the people of Mar Sara.
After he'd joined Mengsk he'd gotten a new mandate: to protect the people from the Confederacy and from the aliens. What was his mandate now? He'd quit out of rage, he knew. Rage at Mengsk for what he'd done. For whom he'd betrayed. Rage over Kerrigan. He could still taste the fury he'd unleashed at Mengsk for deserting her like that, leaving her to the zerg and whatever else was crawling across the planet's remains. Hell, he could still feel the tender new skin across his knuckles where he'd punched Duke after the ironhaired general had ordered him to stand down.
He was still angry. But being angry wasn't getting him anywhere. And after that initial fury had faded he found he didn't know how to lead the way his people expected. They'd become rebels, but what were they really rebelling against? And how? Mike was a more effective rebel, in his own way, sending out these rogue broadcasts from hidden stations. Reporting on what Mengsk was really doing to consolidate his power and telling people what had really happened with the zerg and the protoss and the Psi-Emitters. The zerg and the protoss. Hell, half the time Raynor thought he sounded raving mad talking about this stuff, or even thinking it. Alien races battling over humanity, acting out some ancient feud, with the colonies caught in the middle? It was insane.
But it was too real. He'd seen too much of it to ever think otherwise. Still, perhaps he was cracking up. That would atleast explain the dreams. They'd been ambushing him since Tarsonis, lying in wait for the instant he closed his eyes each night. As soon as he laid his head down and drifted off, the dreams began Nightmares, really. Each was the same. He was trapped, confined, bound somehow without rope or shackles, unable to move or resist. Shadowy figures hovered over him, pressing in on every side as he lay helpless, wanting to scream but unable to open his mouth. That was the dream. Until last night. This time it had been different. He had not been bound at all, and had retained control of his limbs, though they felt heavy and slow and oddly numb. He was standing on a pale ground, soft grayish-white like old teeth or bleached bone, and every movement kicked up small puffs of it, which drifted across his feet and brushed against his ankles. The material was oddly dry, neither cool nor warm, and disintegrated upon contact.
Ash. He was standing on a field of ash. It stretched as far as the eye could see, coating every surface, even the rocky black hills that rose off to the sides. Clouds of it swirled through the air, obscuring his view of two small purplish moons and a ringed red planet that hung overhead. He could taste the ash when he breathed, feel it coating his lungs. The entire planet was ash, as if it had been razed once and never recovered. But he had more pressing matters than studying the landscape. As he stood, getting his bearings and trying to shake his limbs back to some semblance of activity,dark figures appeared in the distance, closing the gap between them and him with frightening speed. Soon they towered over him, their sulfurous breath hot on his skin. He tried to keep them all in sight and not look at them at the same time, knowing somehow that staring at them would drive him beyond the brink. The quick glimpses he caught in his peripheral vision reminded him of zerg—tough skin and stretched frames exuding tentacles and spikes and spines. But these were larger than any zerg he had faced, darker, distorted. They terrified him, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest, his breath coming short, his skin breaking out in a clammy sweat.
A small whimper escaped him and he clenched his jaw, trying to prevent similar sounds from emerging. Though they were all but brushing against him he found he could somehow slip past these shadowy figures, and in a moment he was shambling across the ash-buried ground, trying not to stumble as he forced his legs to their maximum speed. The hills stood beyond, the distance to them uncertain because the ash hid telltale shadows, but he knew if he could only reach them he could find cover. Plumes of fire and smoke rose behind them—volcanoes, judging from the ash—and he knew the soot and smoke would help hide him from view. If he could make it over the ridge he could vanish into the haze. He could escape. He urged his limbs to cooperate, to move, and ran as fast as he could. It was not enough. The figures were closing in, spines wriggling in anticipation, tentacles lashing the air, and he could hear them hissing their excitement. He could hear their flesh dragging across the ground, sending clouds of ash everywhere. He could even hear the drool dripping from their lips. Soon they would have him surrounded, cut off. Their long limbs would wrap around him, binding him, and the chase would be over. Then the real torment would begin.
Desperate, he wheeled about, searching for a way out, a weapon, anything. He needed help! But nothing was there. Only the ash and the monsters and him. One of the creatures oozed forward, its hard, slick flesh protruding long spines like a crop of hair, and reached for him with spike-studded limbs. His flesh burned where it touched him, acid shooting through his veins as the spikes broke his skin, and he thrashed uncontrollably. His head jerked about, red hair tangling and temporarily obscuring the sight of what was waiting. Then the tentacles tightened and, as his lungs were squeezed dry, a single cry escaped him."Jimmy!"That was when he woke up"It can't be," Raynor mused as shucked his pants and stepped into the shower.
A twist of the silverinlaid handle activated the needle-sharp spray—real water; nothing but the best for Mengsk!—and the shock of ice-cold water removed any last vestige of sleep along with the dirt and sweat and dried blood. He stubbornly shut the shower off after the regulation thirty seconds and waited patiently for the hot air that
followed, leaving him dry and awake and slightly flushed as he exited and grabbed a cleaner shirt and
pants from his closet. All the time his mind was still spinning, trying to make sense of the dream, trying to ignore the clues it had received. "It just can't be," he told himself again, tugging on his boots and then sliding into his jacket. The gun belt went around his waist automatically, his blaster settled comfortably at his thigh, and he was heading for the door, snatching up his hat on the way out. The Hyperion was a big ship, a full-sized battle cruiser, and it had ample space for weapons, supplies, and small scoutships. But it had also been Mengsk's flagship, and the former terrorist wasn't about to creep
down narrow gangways or shuffle up cramped steelrailed ladders. Raynor shook his head yet again as he walked along a broad, carpeted hallway, soft lighting rising from the tasteful wall sconces spaced evenly down both sides. Between the doors, paintings hung.
It all resembled a stately mansion rather than a spaceship, let alone a warship. He wondered if Mengsk was more upset about losing the ship's weapons or about losing the scotch, cigars, and other treats he'd kept onboard. Skipping up the wide curving staircase, Raynor finally reached the command level and, tugging open the heavy door, entered the control room. His control room. It was as ostentatious as ever, a grand ballroom festooned with monitors and consoles, a dining room filled with operating stations, a helm fashioned from wood and tile and blanketed in velvet and silk. "Sir!" Matt Horner saluted from the command chair and made to vacate it, but Raynor waved him back down. Horner was a good man, if a bit young and idealistic—he had actually joined the Sons of Korhal to make a difference and still believed in such things as patriotism and justice. He'd learn someday, though Raynor regretted the fact. For now he was a good second-in-command and an excellent ship captain. "All's quiet, sir," Horner told him, and Raynor nodded, leaning against a console midway between the command chair and the navigation controls.
"What are your orders, sir?" Horner asked, and
Raynor shrugged. "As you were, son." He saw the disappointment etched across the younger man's face and felt the guilt wash over him again. He'd seen that same look manym times, on Horner and others, in the past few weeks. They had all been so eager to follow him, so convincednhe would lead them to do the right thing. And instead he'd led them here. Here where they sat waiting, doing nothing but fending off the occasional stray ship, biding their time until Mengsk learned their whereabouts and sent the fleet after them. Why weren't they doing more? Raynor knew they wondered that. Every morning Horner asked for orders, and every morning he had none to give. He had lost his sense of direction. Breaking from Mengsk had been the right thing, Raynor was sure of that, but he wasn't ready to attack the Dominion outright and he just couldn't seem to find a good middle ground between inactivity and all-out war. As Horner sank back into the command chair, Raynor let his mind drift again, and once again it returned to the dreams. Particularly to this most recent one. It refused to leave him.
It had been different from all the others, and not just because of the details and his freedom of movement. It had been more intense— the edges sharper, the colors brighter, the air charged with something that had crackled about him, raising his hair on end. Excitement? Fear? Anticipation. Something was going to happen. And soon. "I need a planet, Matt," he said finally, causing the younger man to look up. "Sir?" For an instant Matt's face was blank, his eyespuzzled, and then he lit up. "Yes sir! A new base of perations! A launching point for the revolution! A rallying ground for the—" "No, just a planet," Raynor interrupted, knowing he had to shut his subordinate down quickly. "One that matches a particular description." Stepping up beside Horner, he began inputting details into the navigational system. "Warm," he muttered to himself as he typed, "though not unbearably so. Air a bit sticky and filled with ash. One visible sun. Two small moons. Red ringed planet nearby. Covered in ash, pale gray, at least an inch thick. Some hills and small mountains, black rock rather than dirt.
Fire and smoke all around. Probably volcanoes everywhere. No vegetation or animal life." The terms came back to him easily, a holdover from his days as marshal on Chau Sara describing plots for potential colony use. He finished typing in the description and stepped back as he
let the computer search its files for a match, staring off into space through the wide portholes that lined the front of the room. It couldn't be her. She was dead. He knew it. He hadn't seen her die, admittedly, and if anyone could survive such odds it would be her, but still... Tarsonis has been overrun. The zerg had taken the entire planet. It had been six weeks. And if she had survived she would have contacted him. Hell, she would have shown up in his room at night, without anyone seeing her slip onboard. Then again, maybe she had. Just not in the way he would have expected. She was a telepath, after all. Sarah Kerrigan. She of the flaming red hair, the emerald-green eyes, and the wide smile. The girl with the knowing look and the deadly grace. Former Ghost, former assassin, formerly Mengsk's most trusted lieutenant.
Kerrigan. His friend. Almost his lover. Certainly the attraction had been there on both sides—they had both felt it. And had almost acted on it more than
once. But the timing had never been right. That was the way with wars—they got in the way of other had called him a pig the first time they'd met She'd been right—he couldn't help the thoughts that rose when he first saw her, glorious and dangerous and crowned with that mane of firelit hair. But they'd gotten past that. They'd become friends. She and Mike were the only two he'd really trusted out of Mengsk's inner circle, and the three of them had been tighter than brothers, tighter than spouses, experiencing the close bond that only forms when death is the price of failure. Kerrigan. Mengsk had left her to die on Tarsonis, amid the zerg Swarm. And she was calling to him now.
In his dreams. It had to be her. No one else called him Jimmy, not since he'd learned to talk. "Sir?" Horner was gesturing toward the console, and Raynor set aside his reverie to study the readout. NO MATCHES FOUND IN SYSTEM "Damn." He'd hoped Mengsk's maps would have it. At least then he'd know that the place itself was real, if not the dreams about it. "Sir?" Horner was watching him. "Yeah?" "Sir, we could still find it." Raynor thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "Nah. Probably doesn't exist." This time Horner frowned. "Sir, may I?" He gestured at the console, and Raynor nodded. Swiveling it over to the command chair, Horner began typing, his fingers flying across the keys. "Size of moons?" he asked without looking up, and Raynor searched his memory of the dream. "Small," he replied. "Half those of Mar Sara. Purplish in color." The younger man nodded and typed in something else. "Size of ringed planet?" Raynor shut his eyes, trying to recall the brief glimpse he'd had of it. "Say the size of Tarsonis," he said finally."Gravity?" He recalled the feel of his feet on the ground, of the ash swirling about him. "Normal. Full Terran gravity." Then he remembered something else. "High sulfur content in the air. High oxygen count, too." He had felt almost light-headed when breathing, despite the ash's almost choking him.
"Yes, sir." Horner finished typing and entered the search. A moment later three locations sprang up on the map that dominated the central screen. "Three potential matches, sir."
Raynor just stared at him. "How'd you do that?" This time Horner grinned, flushing slightly. "Used an algorithm, sir. Input the details for the system and cross referenced them with star maps." He indicated the three glowing dots on the screen. "None of them explored, sir. That's why they weren't in the nav system. But based on their suns and planets and moons, these three could fit." "Hunh." Raynor shook his head, impressed. Horner was so eager to please, so quick to obey any order, he sometimes forgot the kid had been helming a starship before joining up. He studied the three locations on the map. The first one was the closest by far. But as he stared at it he felt . . . wrong, somehow. Not bad, not good, just cold, disconnected. He glanced at the second dot. Same feeling. Then he looked at the third dot—and almost fell over from the wave of fear and tension that hit him. He broke out in a sweat just staring at it, and somehow i seemed to flare brighter, though he knew it hadn't. "That's it," he whispered, gesturing toward the third dot, and Horner realigned the screen, centering on the
dot and focusing in upon it. "Got it, sir," he said as a string of numbers appeared beside it. "Set course?" For a moment Raynor hesitated. That was the world he'd seen in his dreams. He was sure of it.
That was where Kerrigan was. His first impulse was to grab a scoutship and head out alone, at maximum burn. But that wouldn't have been smart. Tarsonis had fallen to the Swarm, and Kerrigan with it. She couldn't have escaped them. That meant they had her. It would explain the nightmarish figures in his dread of the zerg, but more so, somehow more powerful and more terrifying than the creatures he had already faced. Subtlety wasn't the issue here. Speed was. Speed and firepower. Something else, as well. For the first time since they'd hit the shipyards, Raynor felt energized, alive. He had a purpose again. It might not last, but for now it was enough. And his people needed that same purpose. They wanted him to lead them? All right, now he had someplace to lead toward. Stepping over to the command chair, he claimed the mike and switched it to open broadcast through his ships. "Attention, all units," he announced. "This is James Raynor. We are about to mount a rescue mission. I believe some of our people from Tarsonis were taken captive by the zerg. I have coordinates for a planet where I think they were taken." His hands tightened on the mike as he remembered the feel of those creatures closing in. "We're not gonna stand by and let those filthy critters run off with our friends. We're going out there, guns blazing, and we're gonna take them back. And we'll blast every zerg that gets in our way." He took a deep breath, then continued. "We depart in two hours. Anyone who doesn't want to go can leave now. I won't hold you to anything.
This could be a fool's errand we're off on. It could be our deaths. So don't go if you're not ready for that." He glanced at the screen again, and at the dot that seemed to wink at him. "If any of our people are there, I'll tear the place apart to find them. And we won't leave without them." He switched the mike back off and tossed it to Horner. "Matt, set a course, maximum burn." "Yes, sir!" Horner began typing in commands enthusiastically, but paused to look back up at him. "Sir, do you really think so? That some of our people are there? Being held by the zerg?" "I hope so, Matt," Raynor answered, turning away to study the dot again. "I certainly hope so. Two hours later the Hyperion prepared to jump, the rest of Raynor's rebellious little fleet trailing behind it. Ten people had left before the ships could depart, out of over four hundred. The rest had signed on for the mission and whatever came out of it. Most had been excited, jittery, and he knew only part of that was the thought of rescuing fallen comrades. They were all just pleased he had taken decisive action. He was leading, and they were ready to follow. He just hoped they weren't following to their dooms. Sitting in the captain's chair on the Hyperion, Raynor watched as space folded around them, letting the massive ship glide from normal reality and accelerate rapidly toward the ash-covered world of his dreams. We're coming, Kerrigan, he called in his head. I hope you're still there, because we're coming to get you.