StarCraft: Ulysses

by Gavin Mitchell

Now, Raynor is married to a deinfested Kerrigan and Marshall of a human colony in an idyllic existence. Then, Raynor, exiled from Auir, must flee for his life and those of his men. Slowly the connection between the two is revealed...

StarCraft;Ulysses

[

To Kate, who insisted I finish this an embarrassing length of time after I started it. Taken up again in an era in which Angelina Jolie plays Lara Croft, all previous dedications seem as naught. Still, the Gin Blossoms quote seems as relevant as ever…

'As the chaotic, swirling energies subsided, a heavy silence fell over the battlefields of Aiur. Due to Tassadar's noble sacrifice, the Overmind was now dead and the Zerg swarms scattered and broken. But as the heroes surveyed their once glorious homeland they realized that their victory had cost them all but their lives. Aiur was left nothing more than a smouldering ruin. Those few Protoss who survived the final battle could only wonder what the future would hold for their race.

'Meanwhile, on the distant planet Char, Kerrigan, the self-styled Queen of Blades, knew that the time of her ascension was at hand.'

Starcraft: Epilogue

'The past is gone but something might be found to take its place...'

Hey Jealousy

The Gin Blossoms

Prologue; The End of the Iliad

Throughout time, there have been two opposing forces in the universe, which are set over those values which more unenlightened races than the Protoss have named good and evil, yan and ying, law and chaos, or even, and closest to the truth, life and death. These opposing forces transcend any simple way of viewing the world, any philosophical conception or even spirituality. Instead they stem from the most basic science. The most fundamental laws of the universe hold that all energy will eventually tend towards entropy; but in defiance of this tenet, there is that form of energy which, by absorbing negative entropy, can keep its own entropy levels to a minimum and thus sustain itself.

This energy, of course, is Life.

Thus, the two opposing forces can be called Life and Death -- as they frequently are by those less attuned to their being -- but they are more accurately termed Energy and Entropy. From time immemorial, we the Protoss have been sensitive to these two opposing energies and, in the twilight of our race, the opposing tribes used them to wage bitter war. However, the prophet, teacher, warrior and philosopher Khas ended these wars and united all Protoss under the strict confines of the Khala. Though the wars had been ended, it was at a terrible cost; for from that day forth, the unique psionic stimulus of the Protoss would be turned eternally and exclusively to the pale blue energy of Life.

Thus, the seed was sown for the Dark Templar, who wield the dark blue energy of Entropy, to be forever exiled from the fields of Aiur.

When we returned in this dark time of conflict it brought us pain that those who were forever wrapped within the warm embrace of the Khala, however stifled, could never know. For once again we were here to be persecuted and misunderstood, no matter what our contribution against the Zerg might have been.

Or maybe not.

I write this document in an effort to unite the two forces of the Protoss, separated in bitter conflict since the Great Schism of our race, in the firm belief that to remain divided will result in utter destruction. But in my weary heart I know that this sufficing cause will not in itself be enough. We must face a continual struggle to justify ourselves and banish the preconceptions of our creed.

First, though we wield the energies of Death and Entropy, we do not serve them, any more than the Terrans serve their mechanical particle-hurling weaponry. Nor do we believe these energies wholly evil -- death and entropy are as necessary a part of the great flux and circle as life and birth. Finally, as all must know by now, our energies are the only thing that can be of any use against the departed Overmind, its Cerebrates of which many still remain, and quite feasibly, that which we can only pray will not become the new avatar of the Zerg... the dread Kerrigan, Queen of Blades, once Sarah Kerrigan, heroine of the Terrans.

And only with a true understanding of our dark energies can it be possible to understand the circumstances which led to this great war which has benighted our race. It was begun by the Terrans, though they knew not what they did. They had reached that point as do all races when their psionic stimulus begins to evolve and awaken.

However, they were in the grip of an oppressive and draconian government, which took upon itself to test all infants for psionic aptitude and to train them to be Ghosts -- assassins working in their corrupt service. These Ghosts were exposed to neural conditioning designed to send their psions down precisely channelled paths and to prevent them turning against their masters. Due to these constrains, and the dark nature of their work -- including training to destroy untold numbers of their fellow race with weapons undreamed of by the Protoss, involving reshaping the very atoms themselves -- the Ghosts were naturally attuned to the energy of Entropy.

And the Zerg were attuned to the natural emissions of the Ghosts.

A creation of the ancient Xel'Naga like ourselves, the Zerg began life as a form of insect, serving an all-powerful cerebellar entity known as the Overmind. However, the Zerg's unstable DNA enabled them to absorb other species into themselves entire -- including the Aiur Dunerunner, which became the Zergling, and the Xel'Naga, whose fate is perhaps fortunately unknown. Rapacious, evil beings with the one intention of rampaging across the galaxy -- consuming all sentience, all life -- the Zerg, whose Cerebrates themselves possessed psionic abilities, were naturally attuned to the dark forces of entropy.

Before long the Zerg appeared in Terran space and began to attack the human worlds. Curious, the Conclave (who had previously dismissed the Terrans and their nascent psionic abilities as beneath their notice) dispatched the current Executor, High Templar Tassadar -- the greatest hero of our history -- to cleanse the Zerg from the galaxy with fire. Tassadar began to do this, but such was his compassion that he also tried to spare the Terrans from the flame. Perhaps if he had not... but it is pointless to dwell on such things.

Viewing we ourselves as hostile invaders, and turning their attention to infighting rather than battling the Zerg, the Terrans found themselves a new tyrannical leader to replace the old, wielded the Zerg as a weapon to ruthlessly slaughter billions of their own kind, and much worse, lost one of their strongest psychics to the Zerg, Sarah Kerrigan. Forming a grotesque human/Zerg hybrid combining the best of both worlds, Kerrigan became the Zerg's most powerful agent, but also gave them the unspeakable idea that they would incorporate the strongest known species into their warped DNA... ourselves.

Tassadar had realized long before that the light-blue energies of the Templar were useless when wielded directly against the Zerg, and came to our planet to learn to wield our own dark energies. I had the honour of spending months training the High Templar, and admire still his selflessness and courage. However, he found himself branded a traitor by his own narrow-minded Conclave, who wasted crucial hours before Tassadar could be released.

In the final battle, aided also by those Terrans who cared little for the isolationism of the rest of their people, Tassadar did what has never been done before and mayhap never will again -- combined both the light and the dark energies to destroy the Overmind, though they took his own body with it. In the months to come, it is essential that we live by his example and make his sacrifice worth while, and learn to unite our opposing forces in harmony. Kerrigan, the new Queen of the Zerg, will not rest until all species are united under her claw-blades, and meanwhile the Terrans continue to hone their nightmarish weapons, tyranny and xenophobia.

My friends, the war is not over.

It is only just beginning.

Prelate Zeratul of the Dark Templar 'On Ending Wars'

Part I;

Penelope

Now. 1. Penelope

Jim Raynor awoke to the smell of frying eggs and the sound of frying bacon; and, as usual, was paradoxically reluctant to get up. As usual, instead he rolled over, groping around in the bed for the naked body of his beautiful young wife.

As usual in the mornings (though not, to his exceeding good fortune, in the evenings) she was absent. Jim grunted in annoyance.

'Jimmy!' called out a clear, singsong voice from the kitchen, 'your breakfast's ready! Come and get it!'

Looking forward to seeing it and her, Jimmy donned a kimono and followed the voice.

Her slender form, clad in a matching kimono reaching to mid-thigh, was stood with her back to him, facing the range. As always, his heart thumped painfully at the sight of her; both because he thanked God for every second that they were together, and because he truly knew what it was to have lost her with no hope of her ever returning. A feeling he would rather die than experience again.

Jimmy padded up behind his wife and kissed her neck. She smiled, and arched her head back like a stroked cat. She kissed his ear.

'Good morning, darling,' said Sarah Kerrigan.

Jimmy had been dreaming about a face and body, heart and soul like hers since he reached puberty. With red dreadlocks, a light smattering of freckles, large green eyes and full lips, hers may not have been the face that launched a thousand ships, but she turned heads in the street. Tall, slim and athletic with legs that went on forever, her body was more like that of a dancer than the hardened space warrior she, like him, once had been. Finally, she was the best partner, honourable and full of life, that he had ever had in a life spent too long in warfare.

She laid off their smooching and returned to pushing wonderful-smelling greasy slop around a pan with a spatula. 'Did you sleep well? You seemed to have a rough night. Is anything the matter?'

Jimmy cleared his throat. He was strangely reluctant to talk about it. He sat down at the table, and picked up his early morning copy of the New Mar Sara Chronicle, failing entirely to read the first page.

Sarah turned round, faced him, leaning back against the cooker. The pan sizzled away to itself. 'Darling?'

Raynor sighed. 'It's nothing.'

'Did you have that dream again?'

'Yes,' the man muttered like a young boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Sarah frowned, turning back to the range with rather too much emphasis. 'You shouldn't be getting these recurring dreams.' she said, rather cooler than might have been considered sympathetic. 'I've told you, you should let me take you into the centre, use one of the total-immersion tanks, and deep hypnosis. You'd be a lot better.'

Both Raynor and Kerrigan were exceedingly glad to live in an age that had no further use for them -- as warrior or assassin, at least. Instead, Raynor had gone back to being a Marshall -- a law enforcer in a mainly law-abiding community. Whereas Kerrigan had turned her phenomenal psionic abilities and knowledge of psychology to treatment rather than destruction, helping the veterans who made up the vast majority of the male population of the re-founded colony to get over the horrors of the war they had all lived through. While most of her prospective patients were troubled by her dread -- though forever unmentioned -- past, they soon got over it, for she was phenomenal at her job. And, while the Terran Dominion and the remnants of the Protoss Empire were happy to keep themselves to themselves, and leave the re-founded colony alone, and with the Zerg scattered and useless without a clear leader, Raynor and Kerrigan were happy to remain peaceful members of a peaceful society, save for shooting the odd Zergling with the weapons they both retained.

'I told you, I don't want to do that,' muttered Raynor, shuffling his paper importantly.

'Why, James?' said the girl, turning round and looking hurt. 'Don't you trust me?'

Jim felt contrite. 'No, darling, it's not that. It's just... I don't want anyone messing with my head.'

She looked even more hurt, pouting like a little girl, despite approaching 30. 'But it wouldn't be just anyone. It'd be me. And I know your head better than anyone.' She smiled weakly. 'Remember when we first met?'

'Yeah...'

'I called you a pig, remember?'

'Yeah...' Raynor muttered. This had been repeated rather too often for his attention span.

'But I was really flattered. Nobody had seen me that way before.'

'Yeah...' he muttered.

'I'm boring you, aren't I?'

'No darling, of course not,' he muttered automatically.

She folded her arms across her full breasts. 'Okay, that's very amusing, but you must know James, these recurring dreams aren't healthy. Who was it, Zeratul again?'

'Tassadar,' Jim whispered. A man -- a Protoss -- they both knew to be dead.

'Tassadar,' said Sarah quietly. 'I'm not sure but I think that may be worse. And Zeratul gave me the creeps!'

'Yes, but darling...' said Raynor, getting up and taking her by the wrists. She stared up at him, bright green eyes showing her love and concern. 'These dreams... they're necessary, I think. Look around you. Look at these people. How many of them know who Tassadar is? What he did? They think that if anyone saved humanity from the Zerg, it was us.'

She looked puzzled, and more worried.

'One day nobody'll remember Tassadar at all, and -- short of you -- he was the greatest warrior who I ever fought with. And he sacrificed himself for all of us. Who here remembers that?'

She frowned. 'But Tassadar is remembered. He's a hero amongst his own people. Like you! What more do you want?'

'True, he's a hero,' Raynor agreed, 'but his people condemned him in their time, and who knows how that will be remembered in the future? History is written by the winners -- and by the survivors. But I hope that as long as people like me are alive and remember Tassadar as he was, we will tell it like it is.'

Sarah frowned. 'Okay,' she muttered, and turned back to her cooking. Raynor smiled, glad to have avoided a difficult situation so easily, and sat back down. 'But don't think that I'm entirely convinced. I'm just sure you'll come round to my way of thinking eventually...'

Raynor glanced up sharply, shocked by the edge of his wife's voice, but she was turned away from him. His imagination, he guessed.

It was entirely possible, he surmised; for despite the brave face he put on for his wife, the dreams were truly terrifying. It was forever fighting, duels with Tassadar, who was once his friend, or Zeratul, the Dark Templar who he'd only briefly met, but felt like he'd known for much longer... Protoss charisma, he imagined. The duels were fought in darkness, and he wielded a strange sword of dark blue with a transparent blade that rippled like a streamer in the wind. And his opponents, though they seemed more like training duels than fights to the death, were forever shouting at him. The voices were the worst. They seemed to come across the depths of airless soundless space, or through miles of cotton wool, or from under stormy seas, or, at best, backwards.

He'd had the same dream for months now, it seemed, and as yet he had managed to decipher only one of the words. Remember... had been the word most often from Tassadar, amongst seemingly endless harangues. What did Tassadar mean? He was dead, surely, and even so, his deeds were remembered. For all that he had said to his wife, Raynor did not think Tassadar could ever be forgotten.

The fights exhausted him, left him weary throughout the day, save for making love to his beautiful wife of which he thought he could never tire. Yet it seemed Zeratul had been focusing his efforts on one phrase recently. Raynor struggled to remember...

...and succeeded all too well.

Awake, awake! You are in grave danger!

Raynor shuddered like a horse, and a sideways twitch of his wrist, like the one employed so often in his endless fights with the unfamiliar weapon, sent the coffee pot flying off the table to shatter on the floor. It sounded unbelievably loud.

Sarah let out a shrill scream too loud for a human throat and leapt about a foot in the air. Her bare feet came down on the glass shards, and she let out a much more human wail of pain.

'Jimmy!' she wailed in rage and pain, tears swelling from her eyes, blood starting to flow from her feet. 'You goddamn idiot! Look what you've done to my feet!'

'Sorry! I'm really sorry!' Raynor gasped, and rushed to the bedroom, stepping into a pair of slippers and grabbing a first aid kit. For a moment he thought he glimpsed something dark in the mirror, but no phantasm, real or imagined, could keep him from his wife's need. God knew, he'd already done her enough damage.

He returned to find that she'd limped over to his chair and was sitting with her poor feet up on the table. The dressing gown had fallen over her thighs almost to her hips, but Raynor had eyes only for her soles, which were festooned with tiny glass shards. Blood was pooling over the table.

'Is it bad?' said Sarah tearfully. Though she'd taken frightful wounds in battle without a murmur, her face was covered with tears now.

'It looks fine, dear. It's bleeding a lot, but it isn't deep,' lied Raynor tremulously through his teeth. It looked really bad, in point of fact. Zeratul's warning, scarcely an easily accessible memory at the best of times, was forgotten.

And on the face of Sarah Kerrigan, while her husband wasn't looking, was a twisted, triumphant smile.

Then. 1. The Rise of Aeneas

The Terran psionic covert operatives and espionage agents known as Ghosts did, in fact, have more in common with the Dark Templar than Zeratul had imagined when he wrote of them in his propaganda leaflet. Not only did they tap into the fundamental entropy of the universe, and wield many of the same powers... but they had been disenfranchised, abandoned by their own people, and now had nobody left but each other.

There was no place for them in Emperor Arcturus's new Terran Dominion. They, he had quite publicly stated, were a holdover to the bad old oppressive days of the Confederacy, and could be useful only for sowing the seeds of chaos and destruction. Also, he had not stated publicly, but had implied, that their psionic abilities had been responsible for summoning the Zerg -- deliberately or not, it made no difference. And, of course, he didn't trust them -- people who could read minds would be entirely able to divine many of the uncomfortable truths about the legality or otherwise of Arcturus's regime. Thus, all Ghosts were declared outlaw; a status which meant that they had no rights of any kind, and any citizen who killed them would not only not face retribution, but would be actively lauded and given a bounty.

People had always hated and feared the Ghosts, for their covert lives and careers, for the nuclear weapons they alone wielded, and most of all, because who could be comfortable knowing that the person before them was capable of divining their most secret thoughts? The natural tendency of the Ghosts to view themselves as the ubermensch did not help matters. Thus they were extremely eager to latch on to Arcturus's scapeghost policy. It was also publicly known that Kerrigan, Queen of the Zerg and without doubt the most hated woman in the history of humanity, who was assigned new atrocities on a daily basis despite the fact that she had not been reported to have moved off Char since the Overmind's demise, had been a Ghost before she joined the Zerg (Arcturus had of course buried the facts about her betrayal -- another thing he didn't want nosy telepaths picking up on) and the state-fostered rumour was that she had crossed over and betrayed humanity willingly.

The Terran Dominion was united by a rod of iron, and the only dissident faction was the outlawed Jim Raynor (who had a price on his head so high he couldn't set foot near a Dominion world for the rest of his life) and his Colonial Militia, who had originally been redneck hicks from some backwater planet. They were essentially peasants in armour and had received only the most basic of training; so of course, they didn't number telepathic covert operatives within their original ranks. The Ghosts might have been quite happy to try to seek acceptance from him -- they didn't owe Arcturus any favours -- except for the fact that nobody knew where he was; and with the strict no-communication policy adopted for all aliens, the fact that he and his men were resting after the final battle on the smouldering ruin of Auir (which no other human had ever found) was not known.

Thus, the Ghosts were outsiders, wanted by no-one, feared and hunted by all. Some became bounty hunters or assassins, more often than not concealing their powers and true nature to give them that extra edge. But many, also, decided that the authorship of their woes could be attributed to one man... and they didn't mean James Raynor. They decided also that that hatred was worth more to them than new careers hunting men for money.

The Ghosts did not hate the Confederate regime that had created them as much as might have been imagined. Not all of them were like Sarah Kerrigan, left traumatised and withdrawn by the conditioning that had turned them into Ghosts. Many, in fact, were quite grateful to have become that which they believed themselves to be -- superhuman -- and many were sufficiently desensitized or just evil to enjoy the work of assassination and mass destruction they were given. These Ghosts did not like at all the new ruler who had made them redundant. At once, a sizeable cabal of them had decided that they would stay loyal to the old regime, find a base, and decide how it might be restored and Arcturus Mengsk displaced -- though they'd be happy to settle for the latter. And that base was the place many of these evil, desensitized men and women remembered more fondly than Kerrigan did, who even as the Zerg Queen still had nightmares of her training.

The Ghost Training Compound on the blasted, abandoned world of Tarsonis.

When the Zerg had been lured to Tarsonis by Psi Emitters planted by General Duke on Arcturus Mengsk's command (the official line being, of course, that Kerrigan had turned traitor and summoned them there) naturally they all headed for the next most psionically active place, this one. However, it had mostly been used to house Cerebrates and protect them from the Protoss, who had attacked subsequently, so it escaped most of the destruction which covered most of Tarsonis' surface. Thus, when the Zerg and subsequently the Protoss had abandoned the blasted world, most of the buildings had been left standing.

Thus, they now were called home by the Cabal, as they had called themselves, and the nuclear weapons they had brought with them which, to a Ghost, were mother, lover and killer combined.

The Cabal was currently having a meeting. They had been angry when they came here, and they were angry still. They had found their new world barren, the only food left by the alien invaders being inaccessible or frequently inedible. Many of their scavenged dropships had been cannibalised for life support. And, while they were agreed on the hatred of Arcturus Mengsk, there was little else on which they were agreed. Those few Ghosts who did not believe they were supermen believed they were gods -- or angels of death at the very least. And this level of arrogance did not lead to the best teamworking. Thus they used to grind to a halt in heated discussions of the relative merits of restoring a Confederate government, points of the Nietzschean ideology of the new society they would create, and so forth.

But amongst them was a man who didn't care about that. A man named Conor.

Conor was a powerful telepath, a superb assassin and a consummate hand-to-hand fighter. More importantly, he was not drawn to the community of outcasts out of ideology, love of the Confederates or even hatred of Arcturus. He was drawn to them by one thing and one thing only. The desire to gain more power.

A desire he was about to fulfil.

Conor was a tall, powerful man with icy blue eyes and long, platinum blonde hair, and so, when he wanted to get people's attention, he got it. During a discussion about what level of elite status psionicists should be granted in the Ghost Utopia he stood up and banged his fist against the desk. The room went quiet.

'Friends,' he lied, 'what are we doing?'

'Planning our new soceity,' said a young woman with blonde hair and icy blue eyes. She was Conor's younger sister, in fact, though they rarely acknowledged their relationship. Unlike him she cared passionately about the ideology and was the closest thing the Cabal currently had to a leader.

'True enough,' he agreed, 'but what happens when Arcturus is gone?'

Vague mutterings.

'Another evil dictator appears and takes his place. It's always the way it goes. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

General mutterings of agreement.

'What I say to you, fellow Ghosts,' said Conor, thinking how gullible they all were, 'is that our goal should not be to kill Arcturus... but to replace him.'

More mutters. 'But how do we do that, Conor?' sneered one unbeliever. 'The public would never stand for a Ghost-sponsored leader, nor would they take kindly to us assassinating him. They practically think we gave birth to the Zerg!'

Conor noted the face of his heckler for a quick knife in the back. 'That may be so,' he gritted, 'but the way to replace Arcturus is not to replace him with an obvious Ghost puppet. Arcturus should be replaced... with Arcturus.'

General gasps of astonishment.

'Or at least,' Conor continued, 'someone who looks like him. I read a book recently -- so old it was printed on paper -- and in this book there was a king, who had a twin brother. So he would be no threat to the throne, he was kept locked up... with an iron mask over his face.'

Awed silence.

'So what do we do? We find someone who looks like Arcturus, or give someone plastic surgery to look like him, or clone him.' Cloning, discovered by the Terrans in the late twentieth century, had been outlawed on pain of execution in the early twenty-first, but it could be done.

'But then what, Conor?' said a new recruit, a young girl called Belinda with neck length blonde hair and light eyes of indeterminate colour. 'We can't control people's minds, our conditioning prevents us.'

Actually, Conor was working on that little problem, but he had no intention of letting that on. 'Maybe not, but we can still use post-hypnotic suggestions, or possibly borg implants like our ocular enhancers. All we have to do is find -- or make -- another Arcturus.

'And there is the problem. We don't have anywhere near like enough people on this world to find a lookalike, and we don't have the scientific equipment to make a clone. We will have to wait until one or other comes to light...'

'But all of us are agreed that your idea is a fine one,' said the voice of the nominal chairman who hadn't spoken throughout Conor's speech, and had been marked down for backstabbing by five seperate Ghosts including the two Conors. 'Motion carried!' And he banged his gavel on the table.

Then. 2. The Ashes of Troy

James Raynor, lacking a chair, sat upon the warm engine housing of his Vulture as he waited for the Protoss conclave to admit him. He was smoking a cigarette.

Please extinguish flammable carcinogenic material, came the telepathic command of one of the two Zealots who stood, psi-blades glowing light blue, guarding the door to the Conclave.

Raynor muttered something and glared at the Zealots, unable to tell which had issued the command. They all looked the same to him, he thought, except Tassadar, whose skin had been a deep black. He wondered if he'd had to face racism from his fellow aliens, or whether the Protoss were too advanced to show such unevolved prejudice. He ground the cigarette under his heel. Another wasted, he thought. To him and his fellow Militia on Aiur they were like gold dust.

The Zealots did not move or speak, but he heard a telepathic command in different tones.

The Conclave will see you now.

Gritting his teeth, Raynor strode between the two Zealots and into the chamber.

He found himself in a huge, round room fabricated of the unidentifiable yellow metal the Protoss used so much. In the centre was a round table made of transparent, medium blue crystal, and around it, were chairs. While there were more than twenty of them, only three, at the far end, were occupied.

In the centre sat the Protoss Judicator, Aldaris, who Raynor despised to the core of his being. It had been Aldaris who had imprisoned his friend Tassadar, losing precious hours as the Zerg over-ran their precious Homeworld -- a love lost on Jim, who had never even seen a picture of Earth. It had taken Raynor to rescue Tassadar, but the lost time had probably cost the lives of countless Protoss.

On Aldaris's right was Fenix, the Praetor of the Templar, the entire warrior caste of the Protoss. It was not a Protoss which sat there though, but a Dragoon, a cybernetic shell encasing the ruined mind tissue and psionic stimulus of the warrior, who had fallen in battle with the Zerg. Fenix was a great warrior who had stood besides Raynor -- and Tassadar -- right up to the end.

Finally, on the Judicator's left was a man who, Raynor knew, was the real power and leadership in the room. Dark Templar Zeratul could only be seen because he willed it, and a cloth and a turban covered most of his head and face. Coldly glowing dark blue eyes were all that could be seen. Raynor knew that Zeratul had been the trusted comrade and teacher of Tassadar, but he could not prevent himself feeling fear of the black-robed assassin, who had command over energies he doubted any human could ever wield. Which brought him to one of his own ideas...

Captain Raynor, please be seated, came the telepathic tones of Aldaris, sounding like the pompous, officious bureaucrat he was.

'I'll stand, thanks,' said Raynor. The seats, designed for Protoss anatomies and bent at an acute angle, were thoroughly uncomfortable for a human.

Very well. We thank you for coming before the Conclave at this late hour.

Raynor wished he'd get on with it.

As you wish, though Aldaris in irritation. Raynor felt embarrassed. He'd forgotten they weren't really listening to him, just reading his mind for the concepts.

There is much we must discuss. We value the help of you and your men in the crisis here on Aiur.

'We were all glad to get back at the Zerg,' said Raynor carefully. This was leading up to something bad, and Aldaris kept stalling. Perhaps it was time to introduce his own inquiry. 'While I'm here, I'd like to ask some high ranking Protoss such as yourselves a question.'

You may speak.

'Thank you,' said Raynor semi-sarcastically, irritated at the idea that he was only talking because he was being permitted. 'You know that I was once a friend of Kerrigan -- who is now Queen of the Zerg.'

Aldaris frowned. Zeratul appeared to look more interested.

Jim let his breath rasp out bleakly. Kerrigan.

There was never a day that passed that he didn't think about her. Didn't blame himself for what had become of her. He told himself, time and time again, that when Arcturus had sent her down to Tarsonis alone he should have gone with her. Though logic and his friends had told him over and over again that the Zerg had no use for psi-blind individuals like himself, would simply have killed him, it was of little use. He felt that while Arcturus had betrayed her -- for which he would never forgive him -- he had failed her. For which he would never forgive himself.

He had been Kerrigan -- Sarah's -- friend, and, he thought with sorrow, probably her only friend. Though she was emotionally scarred and needed constant reassurance to boost her low self-esteem, still he had valued her friendship and presence beyond price. And, while both of them knew very well how much he wanted to be more than friends, it had never really happened. He knew that Sarah, withdrawn and introverted, found it difficult to open up, but felt confident that one day she would heal enough to love and be loved.

However, due to Arcturus's betrayal, that day had never come about. Raynor's next contact with Kerrigan had come much later on the volcanic planet Char when, mutated almost beyond recognition into the nightmarish Queen of Blades, she had coldly and dispassionately told him that while it was well within her power to kill him, she would settle for him leaving Char and never going up against the Zerg again. Something within Raynor had broken open and died that day.

But, after the defeat of the Overmind, the dreams had started.

'I keep having... dreams,' he said carefully. 'About her. About Sar-Kerrigan.'

The Protoss facing him frowned. What content do these dreams have?

Raynor opened his mouth, then shut it again, embarrassed. Despite the fact that Kerrigan's mutated form was now hideous to look upon, the dreams were... erotic. And arousing. He pushed the thoughts away, fearful the Protoss would detect them, and instead concentrated on their clear meaning.

'I believe she wants me to come to Char,'

The Protoss looked at him as though he had gone mad, their massive eyebrow ridges practically touching where their noses might have been.

Senseless folly! came the metallic thoughts of Fenix. Do not pay any attention to her, human. It is sure to be a trap. The Zerg are the fathers of lies!

I agree with Fenix, came Aldaris's words. Char is a breeding ground for the Zerg. You cannot succeed in anything but dying. Why would the Queen of the Zerg want you on Char for any other reason than your destruction?

Because she loves me, thought Raynor in a shielded area of his brain, and said something else instead. 'I believe there is an opportunity, though,' he said, irritated at being made to feel like the inferior species. 'If Kerrigan wants me on Char then she will give me safe passage to it. And I'm the only one who has any chance of getting anywhere near her.'

To do what, human? thought Fenix. Kerrigan is many times more powerful even than a Protoss. You do not imagine you can kill her?

'Not as I am, no,' said Raynor. 'But I do believe, that the only individuals who can do any permanent harm to the Zerg are the Templar?'

Not quite true, human...

Raynor looked up, amazed. The thoughts had had the aged, dry, weary tones of Zeratul, the Dark Templar. But no-one else seemed to have registered his speech. Had the thoughts been for him alone? Zeratul was staring at him with those dark blue eyes. He could not meet them.

'So my plan is, that because I am the only person who can possibly get near Kerrigan,' continued Raynor, hurrying on, 'that you train me ... as a Templar. And when I get to Kerrigan, I will kill her,' After I've satisfied myself that the Zerg can't be flushed out of her, he added privately.

Aldaris looked at him with amazement, and then started to laugh. Jim stared at him in anger. It was vicious, cruel, mocking laughter. The laughter of a superior race.

Foolish human! laughed Aldaris. You have no chance of ever becoming a Templar! Only those Zealots who have fought long in combat -- for many centuries -- and have learned to control and understand the psionic energy which flows through them could ever learn the spells wielded by the Templar. You have no psionic stimulus, and even if you did, you could never live long enough to learn to wield it. Abandon this foolish notion, and abandon thoughts of your concubine. Whatever she might have been, she is lost to you now.

'Fine,' snapped Raynor, angered by the mockery and the insulting reference to Kerrigan. 'Be like that. At least don't mock me. It was only an idea.'

Very well, human, thought Aldaris, clearly still much amused. We shall move on to less hilarious matters. We have a problem. There is something we want you and your men to do...

They all fell silent. Raynor could swear they were unwilling to continue.

You must leave Aiur,said Aldaris finally.

'What?' yelled Raynor. 'You cannot be serious! We've got nowhere else to go!'

That is none of our concern, human, thought Aldaris coldly. What is our concern is that the Protoss object to sharing Aiur with those they believe to be of inferior race.

'Inferior or not,' said Raynor, quivering with cold anger, 'we helped save your bony asses from the Zerg.'

We know that, noble human, thought Fenix, but most of the ordinary warriors would prefer to attribute the victory to Tassadar and ourselves. They do not believe that they could need the help of humans.

'But how can you be so ungrateful?' yelled Raynor. 'We were comrades against the Zerg! Doesn't that mean anything to you?'

Only in a time of war, human, thought Fenix sadly. History is written by the winners.

'Zeratul? You can't let him do this!' appealed Raynor to the real power behind the throne.

We are all in agreement, human, came the reply. You must leave Aiur. The Homeworld is sacrosanct, and its location must remain forever secret. Our Arbiters will teleport you to a place of your choice when you are ready.

'Fine. Screw the lot of you!' Raynor stormed out.

Out in the hallway, shaking with anger, he lit up a cigarette. Again, the Zealot told him not to, but this time he replied with an obscenity and the Zealot fell silent. He collapsed into the cockpit of his Vulture and sank his head into his hands.

How could they do this to him? Saying he had no place to go was no mere hyperbole. There was no place for him and his men in Arcturus's Terran Dominion -- they were all branded traitors, and in any case Raynor wanted nothing to do with the one who'd betrayed him and Kerrigan. His home Mar Sara had been over-run by the Zerg and burned clean of all life by the Protoss, along with nine out of thirteen of the other Terran worlds. They had no-one. And no where.

Raynor was interrupted in his self-pitying reverie by a tap on the glass.

There was no-one outside. But the tap came again.

Curious, Raynor got out of the Vulture and looked around him. There was still no-one around. Even the Zealots had gone.

Human, came a thought.

Raynor nearly jumped from his skin and banged his leg hard against his bike. Standing beside him, clad in a long green robe, was Zeratul, apparently materialized out of thin air. 'Jesus! You scared me,' Raynor muttered. 'Do you always have to sneak up on people like that?'

The Dark Templar regarded him silently.

Raynor began to feel uneasy. 'Listen, Templar, do you mind?' he said in irritation. 'I have to get back to my men. I have some bad news for them.'

What you had to say... interested me. thought the Protoss abruptly.

'What? How?' said Raynor in confusion.

About the Templar, replied the member of their number. You made a statement, but it was not entirely true.

'Being what?'

That only the power of the Templar is truly effective against the Zerg. This is not true. The energies wielded by the ordinary Templar are as useless as brute force. Only that wielded by my own brethren -- the Dark Templar -- is the same as that wielded by the Zerg.

'Oh, right,' muttered Raynor. 'Yeah, but this is all academic, isn't it? None of those energies can be wielded by me -- and I'm the only one who can get near Kerrigan.'

That may not be the case, human, came Zeratul's surprising answer. Do you know why the Zerg were originally drawn to your world?

'Because they were sensitive to the psionic emanations of the Ghosts...' said Raynor, and trailed off, staring into space.

Correct, human, replied Zeratul. Thus, it is possible that the Ghosts were using the same energies as the Zerg and ourselves. And, therefore, possible that a Ghost could learn to be a Dark Templar.

'Right,' breathed Raynor, but then his face fell. 'But that's still no use. All the Ghosts seem to have disappeared. And I don't have any with me.'

Then, human, you must become one.

'Become one?' gasped Raynor. 'That's impossible! All Terran infants are given a psi test at nine months of age, and those who fail can never become Ghosts.'

That may not be true, human. We of the Protoss believe that if a race has evolved enough to have a psionic stimulus, then all of that race must be able to wield psionics. It may be that your Government would only train those who were powerful, or those whose talents were overt.

'But-'

But nothing, human. This I say to you. Learn to become a Ghost, if you can, and then return to me. And I will inpart to you the precious knowledge of the Dark Templar.

Throwing up his cloaking field once more, Zeratul vanished as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Raynor with dark thoughts.

Now. 2. The Greek Survivor

By the time Raynor had finally got out of his house, he had become convinced that Sarah's feet would have clotted and stopped bleeding on their own.

After her feet had been festooned with bandages, Sarah had steadfastly refused to take the day off and had instead got dressed, shoving the injured appendages into thigh-high boots that bore a closer resemblance to bondage accessories, cursing Raynor's stupidity bitterly all the while. He had borne it with equanimity, though later having to swallow his growing irritation. It had been a relief to get out of the door.

While their marriage was close, loving and secure, it was, shall we say, volatile. Raynor's life had been stressful beyond the imagination of any executive, and Kerrigan's had been more stressful than any human had any right to survive. She'd been brainwashed, subjected to unspeakable experiments, rescued, subsequently betrayed, abandoned, brainwashed again, and her body had been violated on the most basic genetic level. The subsequent cleansing of her infestation had been worse if anything -- Raynor had doubted that she would survive. However, the knowledge of her troubles were enough to make him forgive her occasional nightmare, tantrum or crying jag. He was only glad that they had each other, and that he could be there for her.

Raynor's usual day consisted of riding around on his Vulture maintaining a semblance of law and order, though usually the most serious law enforcement problem he had to deal with was stolen domestic stock. However soon after leaving his house, he'd received a priority rendezvous call from his Deputy Tom Kazansky calling him to the edge of town. He headed for the signal through the buildings of the settlement post haste.

The town, since the vast majority of its male population were war veterans of Raynor's former colonial militia, had most of its dwellings made up of abandoned military equipment -- Bunkers, Academies, and the like. Raynor himself lived in what had been a Command Centre, and one couple planning to have a lot of children (as yet though, in common with the rest of the settlement, there weren't any) lived in a grounded Battlecruiser. While Raynor tried to make sure all the equipment remained in combat fighting order, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. Young men and women living peacefully after a war of that magnitude didn't want to be reminded of the past; and thus for them, finally and irrevocably, the war was over.

Raynor wondered, not for the first time, about the lack of children in the settlement. In a town of four hundred young adults, the vast majority of whom were partnered off, a pregnancy would have been expected in the several months they'd lived there. Then again, all of them had had extremely stressful histories which weren't conducive to conception, Raynor imagined. He hoped the large quantities of nukes the Confederate Ghosts had been fond of throwing around hadn't rendered everyone sterile. He himself and his wife had never brought up the idea, though they didn't use contraception. While he knew that her DNA was now 100% human, he wondered if she herself wasn't afraid what her child might look like. He resolved to bring up the matter when he had the chance.

He reached the outskirts of the settlement, and he saw his deputy's bike -- identifiable by the star that had been used by Marshals and deputies throughout the ages -- parked upon the dirt. Tom Kazansky had once been the finest Wraith pilot in the Terran Dominion, before effectively defecting to Raynor following their ignominious expulsion from Aiur. His piloting skills were now limited to the occasional crop spraying, though he still sent his plane screaming over the settlement every chance he got, until people complained. Raynor wondered, not for the first time, why his piloting skills didn't transfer to the hover bike. He was much less competent with a Vulture.

He parked up next to it and got out, looking around for his deputy. He found Kazansky with his leg up on a rock, staring intensely at the floor. There wasn't anything Kazansky didn't do intensely. He was a dark, moody, serious young man, with a dry, dull, monotonous voice that always sounded like he was coming over a Wraith intercom even when face to face. He was tall and thin, with short dark hair and dark eyes, and an intense, brooding look. He was one of the few young men of the colony who didn't have a girlfriend. Given how little fun he was to be around, Raynor supposed he wasn't surprised. However, he was a superb leader and officer.

'Howdy,' grated Kazansky with characteristic enthusiasm.

'Hi there, Tom,' said Raynor ironically, 'and how are you this fine morning? I've just had a really rough time with my girlfriend.'

'Sorry,' said Tom in tones that said he wasn't interested in the least. 'I thought you might want to take a look at this.'

'What?'

'Look down.'

Raynor looked down.

'My God!'

The area was thick with dead Zerg. There must have been at least a hundred combatants. Amongst the remains of at least fifty Zerglings (who had been literally ripped apart) were the dismembered bodies of larger, tougher species. Fragments of Ultralisk blades jostled for position with shattered Scourge and the pierced bodies of Mutalisks and Queens.

'What did this?' breathed Raynor. Oddly, there was no smell. The Zerg remains had merely dried out and mummified.

'Well, I've had a quick look round,' muttered Kazansky, 'and I guess... they did it to each other.'

'Each other? Why? Don't they all serve the same Cerebrate?'

'Should do. I don't notice any differences.'

Neither did Raynor. 'There shouldn't be this many Zerg around,' he said, starting to pace the floor, having to avoid sharp skulls and needle spines. 'We scoured this entire planet and we've got patrols throughout the surrounding space. How did they get here?'

'I haven't the slightest clue,' muttered Kazansky.

'If the Zerg are here...' murmured Raynor.

They both fell silent. It didn't bear thinking about.

'I'm going to have to come down harder about keeping equipment in combat readiness.' muttered Raynor, staring into the middle distance. 'And start organizing training weekends and night-exes again. If there's going to be a fight, we can't afford to get sloppy...'

'Is that even necessary?' queried Tom. 'Remember, these Zerg killed each other. They must have gone berserk. Which is logical. There aren't any leaders left, with the Overmind dead and the Que-'

'Yeah,' muttered Raynor, cutting him off. He didn't like Kerrigan's past referred back to. 'Another thing Tom. I don't want anyone to hear about this. Not anyone.'

'Might I possibly ask why?'

'I don't want to spread panic,' muttered Raynor, though he knew this to be a lie. In truth, he didn't know what he didn't want anyone else to know. The incident frightened him far more than it really should. He especially dreaded to know how his wife might react to Zerg under their very noses. He strongly suspected she'd freak. 'I want you to get some Firebats -- men we can trust, to keep their mouths shut -- and burn this entire area. And bury anything that won't.'

'Yes sir,' muttered Kazansky. Though he could think for himself, he was not one to argue with his superior officer. At least, not one that he respected – he had a poor rep with authority otherwise.

'See to it,' said Raynor abruptly and strode away, suddenly afraid of what his deputy might read in his face.

'Sir?'

'Yes?'

'Should the Queen of Blades hear about this?'

Raynor turned round sharply, wondering with some anger why Tom should refer to Kerrigan by her former, never-spoken title. There was nothing in his face to indicate guile.

'No,' grated Raynor, staring deep into his subordinate's eyes. 'I most especially do not want my wife to hear anything about this, do you understand?'

'I understand,' said Kazansky in his usual monotone.

'This information may cause my wife some considerable... distress...' said Raynor, 'and if it does I will hold you personally responsible!'

'It's already forgotten, sir,' said Kazansky, frowning -- an uncharacteristic show of expression.

Raynor felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. 'Listen, Tom, no hard feelings, it's just that this has shaken me up.'

'Accepted, sir.'

'I guess you know what this means for the colony, Tom?'

'I hear that,' rasped Tom with his characteristic pessimism. 'It means nothing's gonna be the same again.'

Then. 3. Scylla

The Zerg Cerebrate called Scylla was feeling an emotion that it had not previously experienced in the six thousand years since its spawning. It was afraid.

The casual human observer (had there been any present) might have wondered what could cause a creature of enormous intelligence and psychic powers, with a dedicated slave caste of hundreds of deadly bio-engineered living weapons, which could not die (in theory...) to feel afraid. In fact, the answer was really quite simple, and any human would have agreed with the Cerebrate whole-heartedly.

The answer was Sarah Kerrigan, the Queen of Blades.

The Cerebrate, a huge, maggot-like brain capable of no movement on its own, quivered and pulsed in unholy terror as, flanked by her elite guard of Hunter-Killer Hydralisks, with every characteristic super-evolved to the nth degree, a tall, slender figure stalked up to it.

'Well, well,' smiled Sarah, the unearthly timbre of her voice backed by an unignorable psionic reinforcement. 'Who's made quite a number of mistakes since the death of the Overmind?'

The Cerebrate could not fail to agree.

Its first mistake had been, after Tassadar had consumed the Overmind with an unearthly combination of energies, in thinking that it could simply escape and lead a quiet life off on some backwater planet somewhere. All Cerebrates had been aware of the death of the Overmind -- the psionic network they all shared had been irretrievably shattered. Scylla still didn't know how it had gotten over it. They had also been aware some time previously of the hybrid superbeing known as Kerrigan (and insisting it called itself Queen of Blades) bursting onto the neural network like a fireball of sulphur, striking them all with fear and loathing. The teacher's pet status she enjoyed with the Overmind and her extreme willingness to threaten any Cerebrate that thought at her the wrong way with death did nothing to diminish this feeling.

After the death of the Overmind, the Cerebrates had lost contact with each other and known what it was to be absolutely, shatteringly alone, worse than any dreams of the most terminally alienated human -- to have no contact with any other intelligent being ever, and be utterly alone in the bleak, cold waste of space. For the only other creatures with any upper-brain tissue amongst the Zerg were the docile Overlords, and they were as far below the Cerebrates as a bacterium is below a human.

Any Cerebrate worthy of the name would have seen the truth to be self evident that of course Kerrigan would attempt to take over the Zerg following the Overmind's death. Presumably some other Cerebrate would attempt to oppose her. Scylla, neither the most warlike nor ambitious of the Cerebrates, wanted no part of this interminable conflict. It had grown weary of the Overmind's insatiable desire to incorporate all powerful species into Zerg DNA some thousands of years ago. What it really wanted was to spend the rest of its eternal life devoting its vast intellect to the mathematical philosophy of the Universe.

Kept hidden even from the Overmind and certainly from the other Cerebrates and Kerrigan, this secret hobby had been advanced by Scylla far beyond the petty dreams of humanity. It had derived Moebius's strip and the Thermodynamic laws aeons ago. Klein's bottle and Relativity were like child's playthings in its grasp. Its ultimate ambition was to discover the equivalent of the 2D Moebius strip and the 3D Klein bottle for four-dimensional space. While it had vague, half-formed ideas of the relationships between the curvature of space-time, strings and quantum theory, it knew it would take thousands of years for it to work out in what capacity they related to its ultimate task.

Its second mistake though, was to choose for its retreat the volcanic world of Char. For while it knew that it had been left a ruin like Aiur as the Zerg had crushed the Terran Dominion, the Dark Templar had attempted to slaughter the Zerg Cerebrates and the Queen of Blades had decimated them in reprisal (which was when she gave herself that ridiculous title) it had imagined she would have long since abandoned this blasted world. Sadly she hadn't.

Then again, like so many other mathematical geniuses amongst the Terrans, Scylla never was the sharpest tool in the box.

Its ragtag armies had been annihilated by Kerrigan's, so much superior in abilities, strategy and tactics than its own, and it itself had been dragged by a horde of Ultralisks to an abandoned pool of obsidian, to perspire in terror until the Queen could be summoned.

Kerrigan raised her hands before her and piroutted like the happy little girl she had never had the chance to be. 'Oh, how wonderful to have my own darling pet Cerebrate on this blasted world!'

Kerrigan had once been a beautiful young woman, but any other Terran would have to be deranged or perverted to find her attractive now. Her red dreadlocks had been replaced by calcified orange spines a foot long which sprouted straight from her skull, stuck out every which way but loose and writhed like snakes on the head of Medusa. Her large blue eyes had turned a glowing orange. Her lightly freckled skin had faded to a corpselike grey, broken veins stood out on occasion like river networks, and red, chapped flesh lay around her cold eyes and cruel mouth. Zerg carapace had grown through the skin over the bony parts of her body, cunningly avoiding fouling mobile joints or erogenous zones, and finally, sprouting from her shoulder blades were her greatest weapons: metre-long claw blades which were yet as quick, flexible, dextrous and versatile as her own fingers. Her torso was clad by black metal armour, secreted by Zerg containing symbiotic steel-digesting bacteria, leaving her long limbs and what the French politely called the throat (before the nuclear annihilation of their country in World War V) bare. What she had was pretty revealing, but about the only creature in the universe which could imagine the Queen of Blades pretty was her.

'So, Cerebrate,' the gruesome creature purred, 'I wonder what brings you to my volcanic seat of boredom?' Hunter Killers slithered after her, while Overlords and Mutalisks stood guard overhead, and Zerglings and Ultralisks surrounded the area. 'One thing's for sure -- it'll be fun finding out.'

Kerrigan started to pace around the Cerebrate, stroking its tough, mottled skin tenderly with one hand while simultaneously scratching it oh so delicately with her claw blades. 'Cerebrate, it was folly of you to come here,' she murmured. 'Your motivations are transparent. You sought to escape this war which is soon to erupt amongst the Zerg, and fly here to this little hidey hole, thinking the bitch queen Kerrigan had long since flown the coop. Well, Cerebrate, but for a few things that might have been, but unfortunately for you... I'm here.'

The Cerebrate quivered. The Zerg, mindless though they were, could smell its fear and they screeched and leapt about in place, clashing their various weapons together. The Overlords, possessed of a rudimentary consciousness, expelled air from their bloated bodies in a grotesque parody of laughter.

'Well, then, Cerebrate, you forgot, or perhaps you didn't know, that there are only two sides in this war,' said Kerrigan, halting before it and digging painfully deep with her claws. 'I am Queen of the Zerg -- and you are either for me or against me. So hiding out for the duration is really not an option. Serve me unquestioningly, and I'll let you live. Understand Cerebrate, it's nothing personal. It's just that I cannot allow enemies to live, and anyone that isn't my slave has the potential for just that. So serve me -- or know oblivion's eternal bliss.'

I will not serve you, Kerrigan, thought Scylla commenting for the first time. Your ideas are insane, and threaten the harmony of the Universe. Truly, I would rather die.

'Oh? Is that it?' replied Kerrigan disinterestedly. 'Oh well, Die, then.' She pulled her blades back behind her.

You cannot kill me, Kerrigan, thought Scylla defiantly, We Cerebrates are immortal!

'Maybe so, maybe not,' purred the self-styled Queen of Blades. 'Or perhaps the only reason for their survival was the fact that their consciousness survived in the Overmind, who could create new vessels for them. No such Overmind survives, and no such vessel can be created. Or perhaps it was that the energies of the Protoss were merely useless against you. Well, the Dark Templar managed to snuff one of you out, and both the Zerg and the Terran Ghosts wielded the same kind of energies. What gives the impression I don't?'

The Cerebrate was silent. Then, as Kerrigan raised her blades once again, it cried out telepathically, Wait!

Kerrigan paused. 'I'm listening,' she said.

I will never serve you, Kerrigan, thought the Cerebrate, but perhaps I can trade information for my life?

'What kind of information?' said Kerrigan in guarded interest. She was interested in any and all secrets of mass destruction.

The mathematical secrets and philosophy of the universe, it thought in panic. All those things derived by my mind in the past six thousand years. Secrets undreamed of even by the Protoss. All these can be yours, if you will only let me live; and who knows? Perhaps the secrets of time travel and parrallel universes will be in my grasp in a few millenia more?

Kerrigan was quiet. 'What guarantee do you have that I will let you live if I take these secrets of yours?'

No doubt I could trade the honour of teaching them to the glorious Queen of Blades for a few more aeons of life? thought the Cerebrate hopefully.

'And if I kill you then?'

The Cerebrate was silent. So long as my knowledge outlives me, I am safe, it thought quietly.

Kerrigan smiled, and stood still awhile. Finally she smiled, 'It's a deal,' and with shocking speed she lashed out her claw blades deep into the Cerebrate's huge frontal lobes. It let out a telepathic scream like a woman violated by a boa constrictor. The psionic energy released sent all Zerg present into unbelievable fits until Kerrigan clamped down on its power and held it like a fly in amber. Simultanously she was evolving tiny electrodes, millions of times more sophisticated than any Terran serial or parallel lead, on the ends of her claws, and when this was done, she used a combination of these and her psychic powers to download every scrap of information from the Cerebrate's mind into hers. It took about forty seconds.

When she was done she withdrew her claws with a splat and a plop and stood, breathing heavily. The Cerebrate quivered in agony, greyish trails of fluid leaking from the holes left in its brain envelope. Kerrigan swayed, her eyes rolled back in her head.

About another forty seconds later, her eyes snapped back. 'Your information is pretty, Cerebrate,' she said offhandedly, 'but quite, quite useless.' She stepped back, and mentally commanded the Zerg to do the same. 'Say sayonara, Scylla. Auf wiedersehn!'

With a wave of her hand, she called down the Psionic Storm of the High Templar over the recumbent body of the Cerebrate. Its screaming before was like nothing to its screaming now, as otherworldly energy fused every synapse in its brain into an unthinking blob of inert tissue. It was over pretty soon, and the psi plane went quiet, only the physical disturbed by the crackle and pop of the permanently dead Cerebrate's frying skin.

'Useless.' muttered Kerrigan again, staring down at it. 'Moebius's strip, Klein's bottle, chaos fractals -- all nice pictures for sad anoraks to hang on their wall, but what is it all for? If only these mathematicians and these philosophers would turn their resources to... a better kind of gun.'

She strode away, claws folded behind her. After a pause while their simple endocrine systems jerked, her Zerg escort wended their various ways after her. To all observers she was silent, but in the depths of her black heart, these same words still echoed, which the Cerebrate's information had not found an answer for;

He will be mine. Oh yes. He WILL be mine!

Then. 4. A Visit to Carthage.

James Raynor and his fleet were en route to the blasted Confederate Homeworld of Tarsonis -- having coldly refused the offer of the Protoss Arbiter's Recall ability -- when he was hailed on the bridge of his battlecruiser Hyperion.

'On screen,' he said feeling an odd sense of deja vu.

On screen flickered two images, the screen dividing itself in a way Raynor was sure he had never seen before. One was of a dark-complexioned young man in the oxygen mask of a Wraith pilot. The other was of a bizarre figure with half its face looking normal, the other half being a flat sheen of black metal with a Ghost-style laser sight where the eye might be, and a happy grin on its (organic) mouth that looked pretty perpetual.

But suddenly, Raynor's pilot, a young girl of seventeen who like so many aboard had lost her partner and entire family to the Zerg, leapt to her feet.

'It's Tom Kazansky! The one who flew through the Zerg blockade around Vegia to rescue General Covell!' she blurted out.

'At your post, ensign,' said Raynor without anger.

'And that's Magellan,' said the battlecruiser's nominal commodore with measured irony, who never said quite how he felt at having to play second string to Raynor the majority of the time. 'The finest scientific mind in the Dominion.'

'Acknowledged,' said Raynor, who always found himself adopting quite a different pattern of speech when he was sitting in the chair. 'Ensign, tell me what you know about this Kazansky,'

'He's only the best Wraith pilot in the dominion, sir,' gushed the young girl. 'I've had his poster on my wall for years and years-'

'All right, we get the idea,' said Raynor wearily. 'Hailers, identify yourselves -- not that my crew hasn't already done it for me,' he added.

'These words they speak are true!' beamed the metallic-looking man, laser sight sending bizarre rings of light over the lens of whatever camera he was using. 'I am Magellan, explorer extraordinaire, and here is my colleague Kazansky, pilot of no little skill and master japester!'

'Hello,' grated Kazansky with the wit and humour that would forever grace all his dealings with Raynor.

'That's all very well,' grated Raynor, 'but I'd prefer you to answer another couple of my questions. What do you want with me, and why can't we see your ships?'

'The second question is the province of good Magellan, sire,' gushed the faceplated individual. 'Following even a cursory examination of the cloaking devices on board friend Tom's plane, it was simplicity itself to build my own version aboard my own craft.'

'Right,' muttered Raynor.

'As for the rest,' grated Kazansky, muffled by his oxygen mask, 'we are here... to defect from the Terran Dominion to the Former Colonial Militia. We turn ourselves on your mercy, Commander Raynor.'

'Defectors, eh? We certainly haven't had any of those before,' declared Raynor, lolling back on his seat. 'How do we know you're on the level, and aren't simply working for Arcturus?'

'For what it's worth, sir, it's more likely than not they're on the level,' whispered Raynor's Commodore in his ear. 'Neither of them have good records of being able to handle authority, and they're known to respect each other more than anyone else. Their reputations precede them. Kazansky is as good a pilot as the girl says, and Magellan is either an android or a cyborg, I don't know which.'

'Feel free to deprive us of all our weapons if it makes you feel secure,' Kazansky added in his nails-across-blackboard tones.

Raynor debated with himself for a while. 'Okay,' he said finally. 'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Drop your cloaks, deactivate your weapons systems, and proceed unarmed to the starboard rear airlock. Your vessels will be held on tractor beam until such time as you've proved worthy of regaining them. Meanwhile you'll accompany us to our destination -- no prizes for guessing what that is. Raynor out.'

'Oh, thank you, esteemed Commander!' gushed the android/cyborg/whatever. 'We promise, you will not regret this. My humble scientific knowledge and my colleague's inestimable piloting will forever be at your disposal-'

Raynor cut across his throat with a finger, and the communications officer cut the effusive robot off -- and not before time, Raynor thought, sticking his finger in his ear.

Zeratul's parting words came back to him, as they tended to at odd times. They sounded as clear as if the mysterious Protoss was right next to him. Become a Ghost, and I will make you a Templar, Zeratul had told him. Raynor shook his head. Impossible. He and his men were caught between two vastly more powerful hostile forces, the Zerg of Kerrigan and the Dominion of Arcturus, and one or other would of a certainty get them in the end.

He shook the morbid thoughts away, as Kazansky and Magellan were admitted to the bridge and he rose to greet them.

Kazansky, clad in a black Wraith jumpsuit, was even darker, moodier and more intense than he had come across over the intercom. He shook hands with Raynor with a grip like iron and muttered some inaudible greeting. Whereas Magellan was even more bizarre. What seemed like ribbed metal trousers encased his lower body, and the left side of his body was encased in similar black metal. He possessed some strange mechanical organ containing dozens of tools and sensors instead of a left hand, whereas the right side of his body looked relatively normal, apart from skin which looked maybe slightly too waxy. Raynor found himself unable to decide whether he was a cyborg or an android either. Meanwhile Magellan -- clanging on feet of steel -- had skipped over the deck of the battlecruiser and enveloped Raynor in a crushing bear hug.

'So glad to meet you, Commander Raynor!' the scientist enthused. 'It will be more of an honour to work with you than you can possibly imagine!'

'Thanks,' wheezed Raynor, feeling for cracked ribs. 'Well, now that we've all arrived...' He sat back down in the captain's chair. Kazansky and Magellan took up positions on either side of him so rapidly and naturally Raynor almost did a double-take, but revised the likely effects of this on his leadership credibility. The Commodore, feeling rudely displaced, slunk off to some other part of the bridge somewhere and looked affronted.

'As you've probably gathered, we're heading for Tarsonis. We have good reason to believe this world has been abandoned by all three races, so we shouldn't have any opposition for living there for a while. The people we were staying with decided they didn't want us anymore.'

Raynor sighed heavily. 'After Tarsonis, what we do next is anybody's guess,'

Kazansky and Magellan did not offer him any succor, or anything else. He sighed heavily, again. There was a heavy silence on the bridge for a while.

Finally:

'Approaching Tarsonis now, sir,' said the young pilot, who had been unable to take her eyes off Kazansky and seemed barely able to refrain from showing him her legs. Kazansky, again establishing a pattern, paid the young, attractive girl so little attention Raynor wondered if he'd even seen her.

'Establish low orbit,' said Raynor. 'Tell the rest of the fleet to establish a high orbit.'

This was done, and soon the battlecruiser was skimming over the blasted surface of Tarsonis. Looking down at wrecked cities, polluted seas and nuked landscapes, Raynor's heart sank. How could he expect himself -- or his men -- to survive on this blasted world?

His reverie was broken by a sharp, distorted voice.

'Halt, foreign vessel, and identify yourself!' it snarled. 'You are surrounded by cloaked Wraiths,' it added, then it's voice took on insufferably smug tones, 'and bear in mind that our words are backed up by NUCLEAR WEAPONS!'

For some reason Raynor couldn't identify and which was of course completely illogical, his heart leapt within him. He didn't understand it either.

'Cloaked Wraiths, eh?' mused Magellan. 'Had I my trusty science vessel, t'would be child's play to remove their little invisibilities.'

'Bit late now.' muttered Raynor. 'Anyone got any ideas who we can say we are?'

'Halt and identify yourself!' rapped out the voice with a new, unidentifiable edge. Desperation? Raynor suddenly had the feeling that the cloaked Wraiths, or the nuclear weapons, or both of them, were phantoms.

'Do as he says, pilot,' muttered Raynor finally, amid sighs of relief from everyone but the new arrivals, then called out, 'This is Commander Raynor of the Former Colonial Militia aboard the Battlecruiser Hyperion. We are armed with a Yamato Gun and capital class laser batteries. Identify yourself in turn.'

Raynor could swear the unknown voice sucked in a breath. 'We are the Cabal of Ghosts,' it said, sounding almost awed. 'Land according to the following coordinates, and you will be greeted.'

Ghosts? wondered Raynor? What was he being led into? It could be argued though, that the situation was playing right into his hands.

The battlecruiser complied with the stated coordinates and found itself on a blasted, potholed landing ground flanked by apparently abandoned starports and control towers. There was no-one in sight.

'Send out three people and you will be met,' grated the unknown voice.

Kazanksy and Magellan exchanged glances over Raynor's head, and immediately headed for the door. Leaping up in consternation, Raynor headed after them, forced to run to catch up. He felt like a fifth wheel aboard his own battlecruiser. No wonder the pair had a bad reputation with authority...

Having exited the ship, the three found themselves on the blasted landing area. A cold wind was blowing that smelled like it contained high radiation levels, and rain that looked like fallout was drizzling from the blackened sky. Raynor was panting from his chase. 'That was a piece of insubordination that would have been court martialled in any of the armies I served in,' he gasped. 'What the hell inspired you pair to go running off like that?'

'Why, Commander, we three contain the best range of skills within our group,' smiled the scientist.

'How about like little things like permission and chain of command?' rasped Raynor, realising he ought to give up smoking cigarettes.

'Load of crap,' said Kazansky with one of his rare displays of emotion -- contempt.

The argument got no further, because suddenly there materialised in front of them two young people. Raynor had been around Kerrigan long enough while she was still human not to be put off by sudden appearances and disappearances, whereas Kazansky scarcely reacted to anything, and Magellan probably had a detector built in somewhere. Either way none of them jumped. The two Ghosts looked irritated that their effect had failed.

The two young people before them were clad in the obligatory black uniforms with laser sight headsets, but their hoods were thrown back. The two of them were almost identical in appearance, with long, straight, platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, tall and thin. Jimmy took care to guard his mind, already certain they were probing it. He could only hope his errant companions could do the same.

The male of the two stuck out his hand. 'Commander Raynor, Sergeant-Major Kazansky, Science Officer Magellan,' he said with little warmth. 'Your reputation precedes you.'

Raynor grasped the hand, felt it crushed for the second time that day. 'Charmed. And you are?'

'My name is Conor,' no rank, no title, no Christian name, ' and this is my sister.' even less. The icy blonde woman nodded coldly.

'We were wondering what brought you here to our world?' queried the girl coldly.

Your world? wondered Raynor, but cut it off, knowing how sensitive Ghosts were to unsolicited thoughts. 'We were looking for a place to stay,' he said carefully. 'The people we were with decided they didn't want us around anymore,'

'Really? And who were these poor hosts?' queried the male Conor.

'I can't tell you,' said Raynor with finality, trying to avoid thinking about them.

'I... see.' said Conor quietly. 'So what makes you think we will be any more eager to allow you onto our planet? What could you bring to our community?'

Raynor quelled his rising irritation, and tried to answer politely. Mercifully, his new friends had kept their mouths shut throughout. 'We could defend your world, from the considerable experience and force of arms we possess,' he said carefully, trying to avoid thinking of destroying the Overmind or battling through the jungles of Aiur.

'So why should you not simply take your force of arms to the welcome and service of the Terran Dominion?' questioned the girl sharply.

Raynor knew it was a loaded question. He also knew there was probably only one answer that he could give. He was almost certain Arcturus would have declared him and his men outlaws. If these Ghosts turned out to be loyal to the Emperor... then so be it.

'I have no love for Arcturus,' he said carefully, 'and neither does anyone with me. We watched him turn from an idealistic rebel crusader into a power-mad dictator. And as for me, he abandoned one of my friends long ago, and left her for a fate worse than death. Whatever you think you know of Sarah Kerrigan, the Queen of Blades,' the two Ghosts sucked in breath and looked alarmed, 'she became what she is because of Arcturus's betrayal.'

The two Ghosts looked at one another momentarily, then leaned forward with delighted smiles, grabbing the arms of Raynor and his companions in two-handed politician's handshakes. 'You are welcome here, friends,' smiled the girl. 'Our entire purpose here on Tarsonis is to bring down Arcturus's corrupt rule. You may have food and shelter for as long as you wish.'

'Come, accompany us to our canteen,' said the male Conor, leading them to the edge of the landing field. 'We'll signal the rest of your men to join us presently.'

After they'd eaten a rather bland meal of iron rations done up to look like something they weren't, Raynor and his two companions found themselves in a passable imitation of an executive lounge with the two Ghosts, sharing mud-flavoured coffee and cardboard-tasting biscuits.

'I must admit, I have my doubts about this world's ability to support life,' said Raynor after some small talk.

'It's alright as long as you stay out of the rain,' said the male Conor, 'and there's quite a few supply depots that the Zerg didn't find. Your men shouldn't have any problems.'

'But while you're here, Commander,' said the girl, 'we would like, if we may, to request a small boon in exchange for your staying on this planet.'

Raynor almost caught the male frowning harshly at his sister, as though this utterance wasn't part of the plan, but they concealed it too well. 'Ask away,' he said expansively, pretending he'd noticed nothing.

'We would like in exchange for your stay some nuclear weapons-' said the girl,

'-cloning technology,' said the man. They stared at each other with this time undisguised irritation.

'As for nuclear weapons, no can do I'm afraid,' said Raynor, spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders. 'We are former Colonials after all. There aren't any Ghosts among us.'

'But as for cloning technology,' gushed the scientific construct, 'nothing could be simpler! One of my greatest hobbies is the cloning of higher mammals. My only regret is that the flying monkeys couldn't actually be made to fly...'

Raynor looked back and forth, wondering what the Ghosts wanted with cloning technology, and what his scientist wanted with flying monkeys, and wondering what was the more useless question. 'That seems sorted, then,' he said, and sipped his coffee.

'Indeed it does,' said the man, all smiles once again. 'And if there is anything we might trade for this precious boon, please feel free to ask for it.'

Raynor almost choked on his coffee. The words of Zeratul had come back to him again.

'Well-' he said, and stopped. Should he ask these people? Could he trust them?

Then again, it seemed fate had leant him possibly the only Ghosts in the universe who wouldn't shoot him on sight. Or impale him on her claws.

'I was wondering,' he began carefully, 'if any details on Ghost training still existed on this world.'

Conor looked surprised. 'Almost certainly, in the training centres,' he said. 'But it's of no interest to any of us -- we're Ghosts already, of course. Why is it of interest to you?'

'Oh, Magellan has always been interested in Ghost training,' said Raynor breezily.

'I am? Oh yes, I am,' said Magellan belatedly after Raynor's boot made heavy contact with his shin, organic or otherwise.

The two Conors exchanged glances.

'Er -- very well,' said the woman. 'In that case, after Magellan has taken the relevant cloning technology to our labs we'll take him on a tour of the training facilities, and we'll see what we can find.'

'Consider it done,' said the male Conor, and they drank their mud-flavoured coffee to the agreements.

Now. 3. The Arms of Achilleus

Raynor was driving his Vulture aimlessly up and down the dusty, freeway-wide streets of the settlement, trying to shake a feeling of nameless dread that the Zerg battleground had inspired in him, when a message coming through on his communicator nearly sent his bike flying off the road with him upon it.

Trying to stop his heart from pounding, he stalled the engine and picked up his mouthpiece. 'This is Jimmy,' he said, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

'Ah, greetings Command!' came the warm metallic tones of Magellan.

Raynor gritted his teeth. He wasn't at all sure he felt up to dealing with Magellan's unique sense of humour today.

Magellan, once a Major and Science Vessel commander for first the Confederacy, then the Dominion, had defected to Raynor's Former Colonial Militia a while back along with his friend Tom Kazansky when things were still a bit dicey, and thus had followed them to the colony to lead the peaceful life. He now seemed to be happy enough as the settlement's doctor and all round repair man, though Raynor didn't like to speculate on what he experimented on in his spare time.

'Good day, Magellan,' said Raynor with a composure and politeness he didn't feel. 'What can I do for you on such a fine day?'

'I have an artifact that you may be interested in,' said Magellan brightly.

Raynor felt the nameless dread that the Zerg battle ground had inspired in him. This was turning out to be one of those days.

'And just what sort of an artifact might it be?' said Raynor carefully.

'I really don't know. Perhaps you'd better take a look for yourself,' said Magellan.

If Magellan, possibly the finest scientific mind of the Terrans, didn't know what it was…

'I'll be right over,' Raynor promised.

Magellan lived alone in the inevitable science facility on the outskirts of town, which kept being flown farther and farther out due to the natural fear and hatred of that which people didn't understand. Magellan seemed to bear this rejection with equanimity, though.

Raynor pressed the buzzer and was admitted into the dark interior of Magellan's home. The area was festooned with the inevitable scientific junk – bits of partly-working robots and machines jostling for position with partly-working bits of animals and living things. Raynor took especial care not to stare into any of the jars, 100% certain that there were a multitude of eyes staring back at him.

'Ah, there you are,' said Magellan when Raynor eventually found him amongst the maze, his back to him. Raynor advanced and stood beside the construct. 'I'd offer you refreshment, but I'm afraid I don't have any.' Charming, Raynor thought. 'This is what I thought you might like to look at.' Magellan cleared an area of desk by the simple expedient of sticking out his mechanical appendage and sweeping everything upon it onto the floor. Many of the things got up and wandered away…

Magellan placed a small object onto the cleared desk. 'Here,'

With a nameless dread jostling for position with an insatiable curiosity and a strong sense of deja vu, Raynor stared at the item.

It looked like a small scepter of some sort. It was basically a cylinder of dark blue crystal, nine inches long and one inch wide, which was surrounded by an elaborate arrangement of unidentifiable yellow metal. It seemed to be forming handgrips of some sort, which to Raynor looked insatiably tempting.

'May I?' said Raynor.

'Sure. I've handled it in any way I think possible, and I don't think it's harmful.'

Raynor picked it up, and automatically to his surprise took it in a kendo/aikido two-handed sword grip. He fell unconsciously into stance, then stood up sheepishly, surprised at himself.

Magellan was watching him with interest. 'Do you have some idea as to the artefact's true purpose?'

'I… no, no I don't,' muttered Raynor, still gripping it two handed. With it in his hands he felt more comfortable than he had since he'd been snuggled up to Sarah last night. It was an effort to give it back to Magellan and when he did, he felt that comfort disappear and the nameless dread slide over him. 'Do you have any idea as to the artefact's origins?'

'Well, from the design and the materials, I would say it originated with the Protoss,'

'I agree entirely.'

'However I have never seen anything like this in the appendages of any Protoss I have ever encountered,' said Magellan. 'And it radiates energies unlike any I have ever heard of.

'This device has knocked out three oscilloscopes and three Geiger counters this morning alone,' said Magellan thoughtfully. 'It seems to radiate pure entropy. However there's no evidence that it's immediately harmful to organic life,'

The mention of entropy rang a bell with Raynor, though he had no idea why. 'Interesting,' he muttered. 'Who found this, and where?' he took the artefact out of Magellan's arms almost without realising it.

'It was found by a young man walking not far from your house, in fact.' said Magellan, gazing at Raynor curiously as he held the item like a sword again.

'Find him. Shut him up. Give him a clone monkey or something,' said Raynor absently. 'Whatever he wants,'

'As you wish, sir,'

'And I'd prefer for you not to mention this to anyone else, either.'

'Your wish is my command, sir,' said Magellan in bright tones that would have been sarcasm on anyone else saying that bizarre phrase.

'Can I keep this?' said Raynor almost despite himself.

'Well, now let me think,' said Magellan carefully. 'I would prefer to keep such a valuable scientific discovery. However it does seem that you know something about it subconsciously. So that if I let you keep hold of it, valuable discoveries may well come to light.'

'Yes, my thoughts exactly,' lied Raynor. 'Well, Magellan, thank you for your time,' He strode abruptly to the door, wanting to examine the device on his own.

'And you too, sir,' said Magellan as he departed.

Then. 5. Nemesis

The throne room of Emperor Arcturus I of the Terran Dominion, Ruler and Tyrant of all humanity bar Raynor's crew, would not have looked out of place in the desert empire of any Arab prince of the late twentieth century.

Dryness permeated the very atmosphere of Korhal, and the room mirrored that, with few colours not being yellow, carved itself out of living sandstone and hung with tinder-dry tapestries that the numerous Firebats standing guard stared at with continual suspicion. These tapestries had been hurriedly commissioned not long ago and depicted mainly fanciful episodes in the sons of Korhal's rise to power. Raynor and Kerrigan were conspicuously absent; even an attempt by one of the designers to represent them as evil antagonists and traitors had resulted in summary execution.

Present, too, was ample evidence that this was the throne room of a dictator or at least the head of a personality cult. The room was thick with portraits of Arcturus, the red Korhal raised-fist symbol, or both. His presence permeated the room even when he wasn't around, arousing the mainly dumb Marine and Firebat guards to unparalleled loyalty (at least, that was the theory).

Finally the throne itself was made of relatively plain black metal. But into it were built numerous communication devices which Arcturus used to direct his forces, along with a plethora of traps and concealed weaponry. Arcturus could wipe out individuals or entire systems without rising from his seat…

The room was flanked with whole sections of Marines and Firebats, who never let Arcturus out of their sight (except in his bedroom and bathroom where he'd made it clear he could defend himself) and whose purpose it was to destroy any assassins. This had already happened several times.

Today, they were on even more stringent guard than usual… for today, Arcturus was expecting a very unusual visitor.

However, they were still expecting Arcturus.

'Emperor Arcturus I!' yelled a crier, and four trumpeters by the sides of the door launched into their strident theme. The Marines and Firebats snapped to attention, knowing that any sloppiness would be rewarded by a kick in the teeth by their emperor, himself a formidable warrior. The door opened and Arcturus, flanked by his elite bodyguard, strode in. As usual, he did not stand on ceremony, but strode straight to his throne and sat down, fiddling with the buttons and readouts. 'At ease,' he ordered. The grunts complied with relief.

Arcturus, a white-bearded, hawk-faced, mad-eyed man, was dressed in a black military uniform festooned with medals mainly of his own devising and bestowed mainly upon himself alone – one of his few weaknesses.

'The bounty hunter Nemesis is here to see you, sir,' raspingly whispered his lackey.

'Send him in,' said Arcturus with characteristic abruptness, and lounged back in his chair, though yet watching the door with interest. It slammed open and through it walked a formidable figure.

The bounty hunter Nemesis was a strange character, and his precise origin was a matter for much debate. He was dressed in a bizarre mixture of Marine, Firebat and Ghost armour, with stranger still, Protoss add-ons. He himself was over seven feet tall, and his face was always concealed by the viewplate of his helmet. Judging by the rest of his body, it must be pretty deformed. His limbs were oddly disproportionate, his legs seemed awkward in the thick Marine boots, and the little finger on his metal gloves didn't appear to move at all. He flew a bizarre spacecraft which seemed to be a Wraith with Protoss add-ons once more. Nobody had ever heard him speak, for he communicated by telepathy, which gave weight to the theory that he was a renegade Ghost with very severe deformities or cyborg body parts. Finally, though he carried no weapons, and nobody had ever seen him fight, he had never failed in his marks.

'Bounty hunter Nemesis,' said Arcturus cordially. 'I hope that your overnight accommodation was to your liking?'

I have no desire for the women of your seraglio, thought the bounty hunter disdainfully. Nor boys either, before you suggest it.

'All apologies,' said Arcturus genially.

I hear your thoughts, gave the bounty hunter. Ask of me what you wish.

'I wish you to terminate – with extreme prejudice – two people who are thorns in the side of my reign,' said Arcturus carefully.

Oh? thought the bounty hunter. And why not use your armies to defeat them in battle?

'One of them is too well defended to be defeated by force of arms,' said Arcturus, irritated at being made to look the fool. 'The other's location is unknown,'

All things are known to me, thought the bounty hunter disdainfully. I have seen more of this universe than you can ever dream.

Arcturus had been warned that the bounty hunter was prone to such bizarre pronouncements, and took no notice. 'Very well.' he said. 'Would you care to know the names of the people you must kill?'

I know you better, already, than you know yourself, the bounty hunter thought. Their names are James Raynor and Sarah Kerrigan, the Queen of Blades.

'Well done,' said Arcturus with some discomfiture. 'Shall we discuss terms?'

There is something I wish to discuss, thought the bounty hunter with an air of casual superiority. It is easy to imagine why Kerrigan should be your enemy. Without her leadership, the Zerg will be scattered and broken, and the Terran dominion will be the dominant force in their sector. The bounty hunter gave the ghostly equivalent of a laugh. And I shan't let on why else you want her dead, lest these idiots you have serving you turn against your reign. Arcturus looked up sharply, wondering if the Marines had 'heard' that, but apparently not; the thoughts had been for his mind alone. But what of Raynor? His little army can be of no threat to you, and neither, it seems, has he any wish to come anywhere near the Dominion.

'Why Raynor?' ruminated Mengsk. 'Why?'

He got off the throne and strolled over to the window, staring out across the ruin of sand and nuclear devastation that was Korhal. 'Because… he is an example. An example of rebellion. Without him, many of the dissident factions that now oppose me could never dare to question my rule. But taking his lead, they do so, and I have had to double my internal police force three times this month alone. His example is an example that I cannot tolerate! He must be destroyed.'

The bounty hunter stood still and silent. Very well, he thought. Though the fact that your rule is vulnerable to one man leads me to believe that soon the Protoss shall be the supreme empire in the galaxy once again… 500 million credits each, he said before the insult had time to register.

Arcturus's eyes went up. 'That much?' he said. 'You cannot be serious. I need wealth in order to build ships to defend my empire.'

With Raynor and Kerrigan gone, your empire wouldn't need defending, would it? thought the bounty hunter implacably. My offer is non-negotiable. Take it or leave it. We both know you could never find anyone else capable of accomplishing this task…

Arcturus let out a ragged breath. 'Done,' he gritted. 'You drive a hard bargain, bounty hunter. You shall have your billion credits… but only when their broken bodies lie before me in my throne room.'

It's already done, thought the bounty hunter, and strode out as abruptly as he'd come.

Arcturus let out another ragged breath, and wondered just how much he could raise taxes. Again.

The bounty hunter Nemesis strode rapidly through the corridors of the palace towards the starport, where he desired nothing more than to get out of this ridiculous armour, and get off this psi-dead planet to where he could once more feed on the light-blue energies which sustained him.

Those who spread the rumours about his origins always made the same grievous error. His armour was not Terran with Protoss add-ons, but the armour of a Zealot with enough bits ripped off the bodies of mindstormed humans to enable its wearer to pass for human. And his ship was not a Wraith with added Protoss weaponry, but a Scout with enough Wraith added to enable it to cloak.

Nemesis reached the airlock of his ship, opened it, and bolted it against all intrusion. He shed the painfully uncomfortable armour as rapidly as he could manage, till he was dressed in only a loincloth and shoulder guard. Then, double-jointed hooved legs bending the wrong way for a human, he strode to the pilot's chair, activated the cloaking device, and launched himself off this Adun-forsaken planet.

Nemesis, once High Templar Furinax and Vice-Judicator of the Protoss, had no doubts that he would succeed in his mark. No doubts at all.

Then. 6. Nectar and Ambrosia

Some days after their arrival on Tarsonis and their greeting by the renegade Ghost cabal, Jim Raynor went to his science officer Magellan to see what he had for him.

They had been welcomed on the planet with relative cordiality, though Raynor's men did their best to avoid their hosts, who would always be feared and hated no matter what succour they offered. Though they outnumbered the telepathic assassins five to one, there were no doubts on either side who had the clear edge in any conflict. Thus, though Raynor continually told his men that there was nothing to fear, morale was at an all time low since the death of the Overmind. A matter that was not helped by the fact that they had found this world barren. Of what few Supply Depots remained many had been ruined by nukes, and everyone was quick to suspect the Ghosts of holding out on them – even Raynor, who'd been to their welcoming dinners, couldn't quite shake that idea. Magellan was trying to create food that had a higher tolerance to radioactive soil, but Raynor rather imagined that whatever the construct came up with would have about as much utility as the rest of his bizarre creatures. He knew that the ugly truth was, they were stuck, and they would starve. Jimmy also couldn't quite shake the feeling that someone – no matter how unsuccessfully – was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. But he found himself wondering for whom, or for what?

But now was not the time for morbid suspicions, as he had a man to see.

Magellan's science facility, named rather conceitedly after himself, was much less cluttered in those days, as he had folk to help him – some robots and a couple of wide-eyed young Marines who wanted to better their scientific education. Raynor rather doubted they were learning much except how much shit a horde of mutated animals produces – you wouldn't catch Magellan risking his cybernetic limbs on that task.

'And so, that was how humanity learned to split the atom for the first time,' Magellan was saying to the Marines as Raynor walked in, gesturing at a slide. 'Ah, greetings, Commander Raynor. Have you come to join us for our nuclear physics lesson?'

'Not quite, no. Could I see you alone?'

'Of course.' The Marines, overwhelmed at the sight of their leader, were already scuttling out. 'What can I do you for, sir?'

'I was wondering if you had retrieved any information from the Ghost training centres,' Raynor said cautiously.

'Indeed I did! It is interesting, most interesting indeed!'

'Well, tell us about it then,' grated Raynor.

'Well…' Magellan turned from him and switched on a large computer screen. Some images of brain sections, with annotated captions, sprang into life. 'I discovered that the primary purpose of the Ghost indoctrination –' Raynor noticed he didn't say training, '—is to activate the stimulus psionique in humans. In the Protoss this occupies a whole 45% of the brain, in Zerg Cerebrates and Overlords almost all, but in humans it is limited to the pineal gland.'

'I see,' said Raynor, interested despite himself.

'Now it was found in extensive studies that ESP in general and pineal secretions in particular were closely related to high levels of a brain neurotransmitter called serotonin. Thus, the Confederates would expose the novice Ghosts to massive doses of drugs that would either cause serotonin levels to be artificially high, or which would artificially replicate their effect.'

'I see,' said Raynor, a chill creeping over him. So this was what sweet Sarah had been subjected to… No wonder she had such problems, now and then. 'What exactly are these drugs?'

'This is the most interesting part, because these drugs have been outlawed by the Terrans since the early 21st century. Once they were used for recreational or medicinal purposes, but it was decided that their side effects far outweighed their benefits and they were banned.' Magellan indicated two extremely complicated formulae on the computer screen. 'These two were by far the most popular, and remained so for the Ghost training program. The first prevents serotonin from being naturally broken down by the brain, and is called Prozac. The second simulates high, chaotic serotonin levels, and is called LSD. There were several variants of these drugs, notably crystal meth and Lustral, but these were the basic ones used.

'They are extremely easy to synthesise… I took the liberty on experimenting on some lab rats. These two were given massive doses of the drugs, whose dosage was then withdrawn. This one was on Prozac.' With horror, Raynor observed a white rat which had successfully bit the insides of both its little wrists out and was bleeding to death in the cage. 'And this one was on LSD.' The rat was lying on its back staring at the ceiling, with a look of absolute terror on its face.

Raynor choked. 'My God, Magellan, put them out of their misery!' he gasped. 'Have you no feelings?'

'For lab rats, sir? That would be most illogical.' However, he complied, injecting each rat from a tiny syringe. Their awful expressions faded, and they slipped into what Raynor hoped was a peaceful death.

'So this is what Ghosts have to go through,' Raynor whispered.

'Yes, though I do recall there was a footnote to the effect that the Ghosts were to be prevented from harming themselves. Perhaps I should have tried it on the rats…'

'Do me a favour, Magellan? Don't try anything else on the rats.'

'Very well, sir. During the early stages of their training the young Ghosts, during puberty -- the most dominant stage for psychic powers -- were to be given a dosage of as much as 180 mg of Prozac per day, with a relative quantity of LSD.'

Raynor drew a deep, shuddering breath. 'So this is what I have to look forward to,' he muttered.

'I beg your pardon sir?'

'Nothing… nothing at all. Tell me… what else would the Ghost training consist of?'

'Well, initially there would be intensive subliminal training attempting to channel their psychic powers into avenues desired by the Confederates, such as cloaking and telepathy, and away from avenues they feared could be used against them, such as the psionic storms pioneered by the Protoss Templar and attributed to Kerrigan.'

'Right,' muttered Raynor. 'And what form did this subliminal training take?'

'Well, the subject was strapped into this chair.' With a theatrical flourish which would have impressed P.T. Barnum, Magellan flung aside a cloth. Raynor stared down at it in horror. It was a chair of black metal with straps as wrists and ankles, a gutter underneath the crotch of fairly obvious function, robotic arms with syringes and electrodes, and most disturbing of all, a helmet with small attachments over the eyes looking like clips with small ducts and droppers rising.

'What were these for?' said Raynor in mounting horror.

'These were to hold the subject's eyes open, sir. The films aren't very pleasant.'

Raynor backed away from the chair in horror. 'And what did these films consist of?'

'I'll show you, sir.' Magellan switched on a viewscreen and thoughtfully retired.

Raynor found himself watching 2-D monochrome footage of what seemed to be some sort of primitive encampment. Over it flew a flag which was like an X with arms, and under that flag, pale-haired and complexioned young men shot down in cold blood horribly emaciated human beings, and kicked them backwards into the mass grave they'd been digging for themselves. This cut to colour footage of a much more pleasant surroundings, in which a man wiped his hands up his body and disappeared with them. This enabled him to sneak into a princess's bedroom – but they were back in another monochrome camp, this time under the flag of two primitive agricultural implements crossed, and once again uniformed young men were forcing their emaciated and rag-clad brothers to work, even unto death. Next, it was as though colour drawings were moving. A young woman with a white stripe in her brown hair seemed to fly over a massive man clad in brown armour and ripped off his helmet. A bald man in a hovering chair put his hand to his head, and blue waves emanated from it – before him, the armoured man threw his head to his hands and collapsed. Then it was another camp, under a flag of a circle now, and this time the uniformed men killed their starving prisoners with long curved swords… then, over the horizon, a massive mushroom cloud of a Nuke appeared. Swordsmen and prisoners alike were extinguished. The scene cut to a hospital room, where doctors were examining patients who already showed the bleeding gums and pallor of radiation sickness, and were burned through their clothes…

Raynor buried his head in his hands.

'Seen enough, sir?' said Magellan quietly. He nodded without looking up. 'I've switched it off now.' Raynor looked up, shaking.

'They had to sit through that?' he whispered.

'Sixteen hours a day, sir.' said Magellan quietly. 'And they were exposed to a audial component even during sleep.'

Raynor took the proffered earphone shakily, and plugged it in. It was in a variety of different voices, but most common was a dry, grating one, and frequently in the background there was primitive music so loud and discordant it sounded like white noise.

'I hear your thoughts… You call yourself my closest friend then you make yourself invisible… We call it the shining… Gotta make way for the homo superior… I've got kind of a psychic twinkle… The nuclear missile is targeted with the laser sight on your uniform… Eradication of Earth's population loves Polaris… When you are cloaked only detectors can see you…'

Raynor shakily handed the earphones back. 'Thank you, Magellan, I've seen enough.' He muttered. 'I'm amazed any Ghost actually survived this!'

'Actually, sir, the vast majority did,' said the construct. 'Most, however, ended up with a lack of regard for human life, an innate sense of their own superiority and a love for violence and mass destruction.'

'Which was precisely the way the Confederates wanted them,' Raynor muttered.

'Exactly.'

'I suppose I'm lucky Sarah ended up as sane as she did… Tell me, wasn't there ever any training in covert operations, assassination, nuclear weapons?'

'Oh yes, all that comes later, along with training with more experienced Ghosts in contacting other's minds, communicating with and influencing them. But the initial conditioning was the most important.'

'Okay.'

Now Raynor had to make a decision. It was to be the most important decision of his life without a doubt. From what he'd seen here, he knew there was a very good chance he would only survive the training as a cabbage, a shadow of his former self, or an evil, desensitised monster. But he knew, also, that only if he became a Ghost could he become a Dark Templar. And only if he became a Dark Templar could he hope to defeat Kerrigan, the Queen of Blades. And he knew in his heart that he was the only one who could get to her. It was the most vicious of vicious circles.

Raynor drew a deep, shuddering breath.

'Magellan, I want you to use this information to train me as a Ghost,'

Magellan gasped, and looked as shocked as Raynor had ever or would ever see him, before or since. 'But why, sir? Why would you possibly do that to yourself?'

Why, indeed?

Raynor had always imagined that he had to keep his plans to himself, but he thought that if anyone would understand, it would be the finest scientific mind of the Dominion. He told Magellan everything that had gone between him and Zeratul and where his conclusions had led him.

When he had finished, the construct was silent.

'An interesting story, sir,' he said at last. 'The logic as regards the psionics of the Ghosts and the Templar is sound, but I'm not convinced of why it has to be you who shoulders the responsibility. Why not get another Ghost to train as a Templar, or simply get a Templar to murder Kerrigan?'

'Because I'm the only one who can get to her,' muttered Raynor, feeling increasingly hopeless in the cold light of Magellan's mechanical logic. 'I know this because… well I just know it. I was her only friend when she was a girl, and when she was in that Chrysalis, she called out to me in dreams and drew me to Char. I think she's doing it still,' he added in an undertone.

'Hmm,' said Magellan. 'You may be right. Still, I can sense certain changes in your metabolism when you speak of Kerrigan. Your pupils dilate, your heartbeat and breathing speed up, minute traces of testosterone and adrenaline become detectable in your sweat. Might it not be too unlikely to suggest that you are… in love with her?'

'Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?' said Raynor, staring deeply at the construct.

The construct held his gaze for a while, then looked away. 'Certainly not I, sir. Such emotions are not natural to me. However I am concerned that your emotional responses here are clouding your judgement. Try as I might, I can think of no logical reason why you should follow this course of action.'

'Yeah, well, sometimes we humans just have to go with our emotions, eh?' said Raynor, smiling weakly.

'Accepted, sir. I have observed this bizarre trend.' The construct took a deep breath. 'However, I wonder if you know exactly what will take place when you submit to the Ghost training?'

'I think I do,'

'Once started you will not be permitted to finish, for of course you will not want to continue. You must take all the drugs and the subliminal conditioning. You will have to surrender yourself, body and soul, to me, to use the material on as I see fit.'

'I understand. I trust your judgement entirely, Magellan.'

'I'm glad. Unfortunately, though I can train you in the nuclear capabilities of the Ghosts, there is no one else available to train you in the martial arts, assassination techniques, or mind-to-mind telepathy. In theory, the subliminal conditioning should teach you to cloak and telepathise by itself, but much is possible in theory that is less so in practise.'

'I'm not sure that will be a problem,' said Raynor cautiously. 'I've already been trained an awful lot by the half-dozen armies I've served in. I don't think the fighting will be a problem. As for the psionics… well, they'll just have to look after themselves.'

'Very well, sir. Then all that remains is for you to give me your consent – of your own free will – to begin training you as a Ghost.'

Raynor paused. Could he really go through with this?

He had to. If only to see Sarah again. Whatever she had become.

He drew a deep breath.

'You have my consent.' He forced through numb lips.

'Accepted, sir,' and suddenly, faster than human eye could follow, Magellan's robotic limb snapped around Raynor's wrist with a grip like iron. 'Remember, sir, I warned you it would be like this.' He began to drag him irrevocably to the chair.

Filled with horror for what he'd seen there, Raynor could not prevent himself trying an aikido throw to break the grip, but it was ineffectual - Magellan was many times stronger (and heavier) than human. 'I knew I would have to surrender to you, but I never imagined it would be like this!' he gasped, as Magellan dragged him relentlessly towards the dark throne.

'Your intuition should have told you,' said the construct calmly, starting to strap him down and affix the clips to his eyelids. 'You can explain to me the feeling after sitting in the chair…'

Before long, Raynor's screams were echoing from the science vessel for miles around.

Now. 7. Telemachus

Raynor, having completed his rounds of the town for the day, set his Vulture on a course for home. As usual, the most serious violation of the law had been that some guy's dog had chewed up some other guy's chicken. Raynor had wearily suggested that the dog owner pay the chicken owner for the loss, with which both parties had complied amicably and walked away chatting. Raynor wondered, not for the first time, why they couldn't have sorted it out for themselves. But he had a dim understanding that people, especially ones who had led stressful lives, sometimes needed a show of power from a benevolent authority.

The matter of what he'd seen in his meetings with Magellan and Kazansky were playing on his mind. Frequently he found himself fingering the strange grip of the Protoss device, his hand falling to it with entirely too much ease. He wondered continually what it did, though it was increasingly obvious that it had to do with entropy – his bike had already failed to start three times.

However, he was more than ever sure that Kerrigan was not to know. Most of this was a husband's natural concern for his wife's well being – he didn't want to worry her unduly, and he himself was already worried enough. But part of it was an idea that he should keep the ideas secret, self-contained, and as solitary as an oyster. Why he felt like this about his beautiful, beloved wife he didn't know. But it worried him. And he was sure it would hurt her. And she had been hurt enough.

Kerrigan was often home before him, depending on whom was cooking the dinner that night, and from the lights Raynor observed that she was. However as soon as he walked through the door he observed that something was wrong. There were no cooking smells, and Kerrigan was not in the kitchen, but on the couch in the front room. She was naked but for a kimono, which was unusual unless she was feeling especially horny, but this did no seem to be the case, for as soon as she saw him she came up to him, and with trembling lip and sorrowful eyes placed her hands in his.

'Darling, what's the matter?' he said.

Her lip trembled, and to his horror tears started to flow from her large blue eyes. 'Oh, James, you are going to be so upset with me!'

'Why love? What have you done?' he said tenderly, gently wiping the tears from her face with his fingers. They flowed unchecked.

She gulped, and continued. 'I went to see Dr Magellan today…'

'And what? What did he say?' said Raynor anxiously, his heart sinking as he thought of any number of possible scenarios, from terminal cancer to the Zerg DNA reasserting itself.

Unable to speak, she merely whispered.

'I'm pregnant.'

Raynor stared at her in amazement, then embraced and kissed her. 'But darling, that's wonderful news! Isn't that what we both wanted?'

Her tears of sorrow changed to tears of joy. 'Oh, yes, yes, but I wasn't sure about you,'

'Darling you never should have doubted me. I'll love the baby as much as its mother.'

'Dr Magellan says that, despite my… genetic complications… there's every reason why I should have a healthy pregnancy and give birth to a normal baby boy,'

Raynor might have wondered how they could tell the zygote's gender so early on, but he was as happy as any expectant father. 'That's excellent. The first baby in the colony, imagine that.'

'I'm so glad that you're pleased,'

'Of course I am!' He drew back for a moment, and looked his beautiful wife up and down, her face streaked with tears of joy. 'Before I only saw one person, but now I see two, I see two!'

Then. 7. Juno's Betrayal

Arcturus Mengsk was sitting in his throne, idly watching a sitcom on the viewscreen and listening on his headphones while everyone thought he was intently surveying the good of the realm, when suddenly a little message flashed up in green letters at the bottom of the screen.

Incoming message.

Arcturus cursed silently, wondering why the message hadn't been screened by his legions of secretaries. It had been made abundantly clear to them that People did not contact Arcturus. Arcturus contacted People. An emperor must maintain a distance from his troops…

There were therefore only two possible conclusions. Either somebody had made their way through his legions of specially obstreperous secretaries – a possibility that was almost vanishingly small – or someone had his own private code.

Arcturus, not a stupid man, killed the sitcom immediately.

Before him flashed up a face which made his eyes wide, his mouth gasp and his body sit back in his chair. His marines and Firebats looked at him curiously. He tried to conceal his shock; but with difficulty, for before him was the black mask and laser-sight goggles of a Ghost.

'Emperor Arcturus,' said the Ghost in that special rasp they all seemed trained to do. 'I don't believe we've had the pleasure…'

'Who are you?' hissed Arcturus, trying desperately to keep his voice below a whisper. 'What do you want from me? Your people are apostate to my dominion!'

'A fact that will soon change,' said the Ghost smoothly. 'Because, I have an offer that you cannot refuse.'

'I don't believe you!'

'Oh yeah? Believe this…' and the Ghost said his piece. It took a while. During the piece a picture flashed up briefly to break up the continuity of the black-masked head moving back and forth. It was a picture of a tall, slender girl with platinum blonde hair and blue eyes. She reclined, smiling, on a bed, with her legs parted slightly. She was completely naked and very beautiful.

'I accept your terms completely and unconditionally,' said Arcturus immediately after the other man had finished.

'That was easy,' said the Ghost, and laughed.

'Don't push it, or you'll find I start altering the bargain.' grated Arcturus. 'Nobody is to know we have this bargain, d'you hear? My people would play football with my head if they knew of this day's work.'

'Accepted. If that's all…'

'It is. Arcturus out.' After the ghost had gone, Arcturus lowered the screen, removed the headphones and rose majestically to his feet. 'Adjutant, prepare the fleets. All of them.

'We're going to Tarsonis.'

Then. 8. The Tragedy of Dido

Some weeks after the forcible start of his Ghost training, Jim Raynor, as had been predicted, was a shadow of his former self.

However, two things he weren't were evil and desensitized, or a vegetable.

Of course, there were side effects of the treatment. Nightmares of the awful movies he had to watch during the day, or disturbed replays of the audial reinforcement he had to listen to at night, haunted what little sleep he had. The Prozac wracked his body – making his muscles weak and trembly and his mouth so dry he could scarcely eat – and the LSD wracked his mind – making him paranoid and depressed, and giving him awful flashbacks he could scarcely distinguish from reality. The only concession was that Magellan let him go home at night, though since he couldn't let anyone know he was undergoing the treatment, he didn't feel up to inflicting his side effects on anyone else.

And yet the treatment was working. He found himself able to sense the thoughts of those around him, though this was as yet an involuntary happenstance. He could cloak for brief periods, making himself telepathically invisible to the people around him. He realised, entirely subconsciously, that he knew more about nuclear weapons than God probably knew, and was sure he could target one if there was ever the need. And finally, he found himself able to block out the awful material that was continually forced upon his senses, and create a haven of peace inside his mind, his open eyes no longer registering what was before them, while his mind journeyed far and wide – to his home, to his childhood, and to thoughts of Sarah, as a beautiful human girl once again.

Pleased with his progress, Magellan cut the time spent in subliminal training and the drugs dosage to a half, then to a third; then made up the time with 20th-century psi tests such as the five-symbol cards, and training in bizarre and obscure aspects of the occult which Raynor found hard to reconcile with the high-tech atmosphere of the rest of the Ghost training. However he was able to find that he was able to accurately predict which of the five symbols Magellan was holding, or the future by means of the Tarot, over 90% of the time.

However, this increased sensitivity brought with it only increasing unease. Any good leader would be able to pick up on a decline in morale within his men – psi powers or no psi powers – and Raynor was no exception. Surrounded by the feared and hated ubermensch assassins, running out of what food they could still find, and with no hope or prospects for the future, there was no earthly reason why the morale of Raynor's men should be anything other than rock bottom. There was talk – discouraged by Raynor as sharply as he was able -- of striking out against the Dominion or the Zerg and going out in one final blaze of glory. If only Raynor could tell them that he was working on a strategy that could wipe out their greatest enemy with only one possible loss of life – his – but he knew he could not.

Meanwhile, amongst their rarely-glimpsed hosts the Ghosts, Raynor became the subject of ever-increasing scrutiny and suspicion. It seemed they knew when a psionically active mind entered their midst, and soon Raynor was being psi-scanned continually. He was forced to inexpertly shield himself despite the certain knowledge that not only should he not know how to do this, but he should not know he was being scanned at all. Also the touch and feel of these evil, desensitized minds – many of whom had killed up to millions of human beings with nuclear weapons, with their bare hands, or with anything in between – gave Raynor the creeping horrors, and yet he could not let on that he did. Finally, he sensed about the Ghosts an increasing, group excitement, an idea of something great just around the bend, and a thought of having something to hide. He didn't even dare imagine what horror this might be, but knew it boded ill for himself and his little group…

… Just how ill it boded was revealed much, much sooner than Raynor would have liked.

They were in a board meeting at the time, all the senior officers of Raynor's little tribe – himself of course, Magellan, Tom Kazansky, the commodore of his flagship, representatives of each of the main professions within his army (Wraith pilot, Marine etc.) and finally Conor the ghost as host liaison. Raynor had had a bad feeling about Conor throughout the meeting. Conor was continually trying to scan him (which didn't help matters) and wondering whether or not he might have a natural psi-shield. Also, Raynor got from Conor not only a terrible excitement, but also an incredibly strong sense that he wanted to be away from here, as fast as possible (in truth, anyone could have told this, as the Ghost was continually fidgeting and looking at the clock.)

Conor was just getting up the courage to tell the others he had to be off (Raynor sensed) when suddenly, a young Wraith pilot burst through the door.

'Dominion ships, sir!' he gasped. 'Thousands of 'em! Advancing on the dark side of the planet!'

Now, nobody might have suspected the Ghosts of complicity from here on in, but that Raynor caught a terrible wave of relief from Conor and suddenly his mind was open to him, clear as a bell.

They're here at last, Conor was thinking.

'Who's here?' snapped Raynor at the smug-featured Ghost.

The Ghost looked up at him in surprise, and suddenly realised that facing him was a psi talent of an order of magnitude comparable to his own. His smile faded totally; he got up and backed slowly away from the desk. Raynor got up too and slowly followed him. He reached for the canister rifle which, due to his subliminal conditioning, he could now handle better than any rifle he'd learned the traditional way. Conor's mind clamped down like a mollusc shell, but both men knew the damage had been done. The rest of the room's occupants watched them in absolute silence.

'Why – the Dominion troops, of course,' said the Ghost smoothly. But it was too little too late, and both men knew it.

'Yes, but you knew they were coming,' grated Raynor in mounting rage. 'That's why you've been wanting to leave this room the entire time as fast as you were able, isn't it? YOU STITCHED US UP, YOU SLAG!' Raynor roared, jamming the rifle into the antagonist's throat.

Suddenly a calm fell over Conor. Raynor felt it strongest, but anyone could see it. The calm of a rat that's trapped and knows there's no escape.

'Yes, I stitched you up,' said the Ghost calmly. 'What of it, Raynor? You're living on borrowed time, and we both know it. Bumming around the galaxy for the sake of a few more years of life.

'For one simple act of betrayal, we Ghosts now have a home and a task. A place by Emperor Arcturus's right side, and reinstatement into his armies.'

'I… see,' grated Raynor, rage boiling up inside him. 'And what else was there? What else to add to your thirty pieces of silver? Go on, tell us. I'm sure it's friggin' great,'

Conor wondered what he had to lose. He decided, from this point in time, nothing.

'My sister as his concubine,' he said calmly.

'What? You'd sell out your own sister to that piece of slime?' Raynor roared.

'Why not?' said the Ghost smoothly. 'I've had my fill of her. Any spaceport would have any number of more imaginative girls, admittedly less pret-'

He got no further, because Raynor, who didn't want to hear any more, pulled the trigger and blew his throat out. Conor collapsed instantly and fell to the floor.

And far away, in a Dominion dropship filled with Ghosts who from now on would owe allegiance only to Arcturus (in theory…) a young girl with platinum blonde hair and blue eyes screamed out as though a knife had been driven through her head, and collapsed.

The pilot looked on with little interest. Everyone knew Ghosts were weird.

In the conference room there was a great silence. Raynor, breathing heavily, stared down at the mutilated body. Everyone else stared at him in shock.

Raynor actually lived to regret his hasty action, because just before he'd pulled the trigger in hatred and disgust he'd had the sense of a secret plan about to be executed, that the incestuous sell-out was not all that it seemed. He was to wonder about this for years afterwards, but never work out what the connection was. Way it goes.

In any case…

'Talk to me people,' he grated.

'Sensors indicate a large number of Wraiths, Dropships, Science Vessels and Battlecruisers advancing on the planet,' said Magellan calmly – though where those sensors were was anyone's guess.

'Any chance of breaking through anywhere?'

'None, sir. They have us completely surrounded.'

'Heh,' muttered Raynor. The corpse of Conor cooled beneath his feet.

He could sense the thoughts of the people around him, more clearly than ever before, but unfortunately, they were not the cast of thoughts any leader would wish to hear. Everyone was thinking – the chance to go out in that blaze of glory has come.

'Dammit!' muttered Raynor. 'It's not meant to end this way!'

In the back of his mind an idea was forming. In the habit of intuitive thinkers throughout the ages, he resolved to keep calm and let it form.

He was sure that everyone around him wanted to die gloriously in battle – a thing he could not, would not allow to happen – but there were two he was unsure of.

'Kazansky, Magellan, can we have a word?' The three of them stepped to one side and communicated in whispers.

'The two of you have no part of any of this,' whispered James. 'With your scientific tricks and your piloting skills you could easily find a way to break through the blockade. So, I'm ordering you to leave. You have your own lives to lead, away from all this… death. Your piloting and your scientific knowledge would be a terrible loss to humanity.'

'No way, sir,' replied Kazansky. 'I could never abandon someone who's proved to be as capable a leader as you have been. You're not like the Confederate's officers or the Dominion. You care about your men – not just yourself. The fact that we're having this conversation is a case in point.'

'And sir, where else but in your service could we be so assured of finding excitement and adventure and really wild things?' smiled Magellan brightly.

Desperation gripped Raynor. 'Goddammit, I'm not asking you, I'm telling you! Get out of here while you still have the chance!'

Kazansky set his jaw stubbornly. 'Try and make us, sir,'

Hopelessness replaced desperation. 'Well, that's it. I guess I can't prevent you dying by my side.'

'Absolutely true, sir. You know it makes sense.'

'No Magellan, it doesn't. That's the whole point. You, of all people, should have realised that.'

Raynor went back to his assembled officers. 'Well, then, you've all had time to mutter behind my back. What do you all think?'

'We fight!' said the assembled officers all as one.

'I thought you'd say that,' muttered Raynor. 'Okay, well here are my orders. Fight defensively. Don't take unnecessary risks. I know you all think this is hopeless, and you want to go down in a blaze of glory and take as many foes as possible with you, but we aren't dead till we're dead. Who knows? Perhaps the Protoss will come to their senses, or perhaps Kerrigan will come and rescue us…' There was general laughter, of the gallows variety.

'And I think I may have something up my sleeve…' for the idea that had been nesting at the back of Raynor's mind had come to fruition.

He led Magellan aside.

'Magellan. In their haste to get out of here, did the Ghosts leave many nuclear silos behind?'

'Indeed they did, sir. Upwards of several dozen. But I don't see what use they could possibly be… oh. I see.' The construct's face fell, for once. 'Sir, you aren't really considering…'

'The Dominion will be expecting that all the Ghosts will have departed, right?' pressed Raynor. 'And they won't think that we have any amongst us, right? I'm betting they won't even be looking for cloaked personnel. This has to happen, Magellan.'

'But sir… even if you do nuke the Dominion, not once but several times, it will mean nothing to the final outcome. They after all outnumber us fifteen to one. We will only delay the inevitable, and incur unnecessary loss of human life.'

'Well, that's the way it goes, isn't it? And what's this about "unnecessary loss of human life"? They're the enemy, Magellan. We're supposed to kill them. And they're supposed to kill us first.'

'I'm sorry sir, but I've been programmed to try to prevent unnecessary loss of life. It's one of my prime directives.'

'Yeah well, I haven't. Get the nukes and my bike ready. I hope you've finished building all the crap into it.' He turned to his officers. 'And you guys – hang in there. You never know what's around the bend. Now get cracking!'

Unfortunately, Raynor knew all too well what was to come.

Now. 8. The Abduction of Persephone

The day after his wife had announced her pregnancy, Raynor was as happy as might be imagined. Following some great sex, some great food and some more great sex, they had announced their conception to their friends and organised a party. They had retired to bed as happy as they'd ever been.

However, the following day bought Raynor back to reality with a bump. Even before he and his wife had woken, he'd been called by a tearful-sounding young man explaining that he needed to see the Marshall now, at once, immediately. Raynor knew from the tones that this was serious, very serious indeed, and had planted a kiss on his wife's cheek in parting. She didn't stir.

Raynor went to the call's location and knocked on the door of a control tower, lacking a starport, which had been turned into a cosy home. The door was opened by a young man looking very rough. He was unshaven, didn't look like he'd slept, and his eyes were red raw. Raynor recognised him as the young Wraith pilot who'd been first to spot the Dominion fleet all those months ago. Currently he was taking lessons from Tom Kazansky and studying to be, of all things, a lawyer – despite the complete lack of necessity for one in the colony.

'What's wrong, son?'

Unable to shake the habit of discipline, the boy drew himself up and said shakily, 'I'd like the report the disappearance of a young woman, sir,'

'I see,' said Raynor, his heart sinking. 'And what relation is she to you?'

'My girlfriend sir,' and tears started to roll from his eyes once again.

Instinctively Raynor knew this wasn't just a domestic spat, and his heart contracted. 'Look, son, stop bothering with all the sir crap. Go inside, sit down, and let me get you a drink.'

'She's been gone two nights,' said the young man shakily, as Raynor prepared him some hot beverage. 'I didn't think anything of it the first night. Thought maybe she'd gone off somewhere… you know.' he added miserably. 'But by the second night I started calling round all her friends, anywhere I could think of she might be. But there wasn't any sign of her. When she hadn't come home by this morning, I guessed I'd better call you.'

'You did the right thing, son,' said Raynor, handing the young man the drink and sitting beside him. 'Now this is just a formality, but I have to ask – had you and her been having any fights recently? Anything which might make her want to take off?'

'No, we never fight,' said the young man, shaking his head. He tried to smile. 'I mean, she can read my thoughts – what could there be to hide or fight about?'

'Who is she?' said Raynor in confusion.

'Belinda Lister, sir,'

The name rang a bell. 'Got any photographs?'

'Here, sir,' He handed him one he'd evidently had ready.

Raynor found himself looking at a slender and very beautiful young girl, with light eyes of indeterminate colour and feather-cut, shoulder length blonde hair. He did remember her. She was one of the few Ghosts who'd opted to stay with Raynor rather than defect back to the Terran Dominion – possibly because she'd had a crush on him at the time. He was glad that she'd overcome her adolescence and found a real relationship.

Raynor felt the familiar helplessness descend on him. Familiar from the bad old days. He had already begun running through the possibilities in his mind. About the best he could hope for was that she had taken off anonymously for a while – because of her young man or otherwise. Otherwise, she could have gotten lost, had an accident, and could be out exposed to the harsh environment for a second day and night. Worst of all, she could have been abducted or killed, by Zerg or Terran agencies. The latter was probably the worst – the Zerg would only kill her, but a Terran might rape and torture her. Assuming the Ghosts didn't have some way to defend themselves from that, if only through fear.

Raynor stared at the distraught young man beside him. He could sense that he was a highly intelligent and educated veteran pilot – not one who would want to hear mindless platitudes or comforting lies.

'Son, I honestly don't know what to tell you,' he said. 'I can only suggest that you get out of here for a while, go and stop with one of your friends, and leave your girlfriend a message in case she comes back.' A big if, they both knew. 'Meanwhile, I'll get Kazansky to fly low over the area looking for her, Magellan to do a sensor sweep, and I'll get my wife to scan the psi plane – telepaths should surely be able to sense one another. And of course I'll put posters up asking if anyone's seen this girl.'

'Accepted, sir,' The young man nodded miserably.

'And… I'm afraid that's all I can do,'

'I understand. I guess that her walking out on me is the best we can hope for, isn't it?'

Raynor could not bring himself to disagree, nor agree either.

'Yeah, well,' muttered the young man. 'Thanks for your help, Marshall.' He began desultorily to tidy up.

'Do you want a lift anywhere?' offered Raynor, feeling helpless.

'No thanks. If you don't mind, Marshall, I'd like to be alone now…?'

'Okay.' said Raynor dispiritedly. 'If there's anything you want, please don't hesitate to call…'

'Goodbye,' said the young man dismally as he went out the door.

Raynor's euphoria at the idea of his baby was quite gone; now, he couldn't shake the feeling that as one life enters the world, another must leave.

Then. 8. The Lone Spartan

As Raynor rocketed towards Tarsonis's terminator, the line between the sunshine and dark of the planet, on his Vulture hover bike, he tried not to think about what he was doing. Which is not to say he had no plan and was rushing into danger like a militarily-minded lemming. He had a very clear and well-defined plan. He just didn't want to think about what was, and could only be, the final outcome.

One of the many new additions to his customised, ultra-souped up chariot was a map connected, via Magellan's science vessel (and in all probability, Magellan himself) to planet-wide sensors, detectors and relays, along with those of all friendly vessels. He could now key up an up-to-the-minute tactical display of the area he was now hurtling into. It wasn't good, showing as it did point-guard Wraiths approaching, and behind them, deploying from an englobing orbit to the planet's airspace, a force so dense as to be opaque on the readout.

The vectors of the Wraiths suggested they would be over him in seconds.

James concentrated, so hard he felt his brains would leak out of his ears. To the best of his knowledge, no Ghost had ever done this before. Yet he had to, or it would result in his extinction. His face contorted in agony, his thoughts seethed, until what could only have been a sub-second later – though it felt like hours – some muscle seemed to permanently pop out of alignment in his brain. He felt his psionic cloaking field extend to cover the whole of his hoverbike.

The Wraiths screamed overhead, almost immediately afterward cloaking as he himself had been. Screamed to attack his men.

James's head hurt already, from only the initial effort of holding his bike-wide obfuscational field, and he had to hold it for a while yet. And he could not allow himself to think what it seemed his men all knew – that the whole thing was hopeless. The Dominion fleet, outside the atmosphere, had the whole planet surrounded; and inside the atmosphere they were currently deploying a force which would overwhelm his own before long. With those odds, what difference did it make what he did? Even if he succeeded in detonating one nuke – several – several dozen – the Dominion had more than enough units to take such a loss easily, and there were by no means that many nukes available. And he knew that the chances of him successfully launching one were slim. If he was spotted and killed while targeting one, it would be wasted, and that was more than likely. Also, more than half the Ghosts perished in the radius of their own directed blasts, unable to successfully gauge where it would spread to on uneven terrain, or unable to target from a sufficient distance away. So his chances of causing one ground zero were low; and the chance of a second, minimal.

Yet he had to try.

It was not just the old campaigner do-or-die mentality, though he had acquired more than enough of that during his apprenticeships in the armies of the universe. Instead, something was nagging at his brain again. Something that suggested that once more, there was more to this than met the eye. The impulse that had directed him to become a Ghost? Certainly.

But now was no time to think about it; the map indicated that the first heavy troop concentration was coming up just over the horizon.

Concentrating on his cloaking subroutines more than ever – though whatever muscle it was in his brain felt like it would never fit right again – Raynor put on a burst of speed and roared towards the enemy.

This had been an industrial area of Tarsonis, but like the rest of the world, was now uniformly blasted by nuclear weapons and the rampaging Zerg. The Dominion had chosen for a battalion landing site a huge area of asphalt, now blasted and potholed, surrounded by Vespene refineries and chemical processing plants. Raynor could see, coming rapidly closer, a slowly lowering Command Centre surrounded by wildly circling Wraiths, ponderously patrolling Battlecruisers and other, smaller buildings coming in to land.

Raynor had to admit, they couldn't have picked a better position for him personally than if they had tried. Under the cover of invisibility, he blasted his bike up to the perimeter of the deployment field and screeched it to a halt behind a supply depot. Shadowed sufficiently, he mercifully dropped his all-over cloak.

Raynor could well comprehend the tactics of deploying here, of course. The huge area of asphalt was ideal for setting up a whole mobile base – landing its buildings and surrounding them by the appropriate defences. It was sufficiently far away from the defending forces – whom they knew were grossly outnumbered – so that they would be unlikely to reach this base, even if they had the resources. Meanwhile, it was an admirable supply and launch station for the full might of their forces.

However, Raynor was pretty sure they didn't expect the Colonial Militia to have any Ghosts. Even if, in a worst-case scenario, the betrayers had told the Dominion that Raynor had become one himself, they would no doubt assume that he would never consider fighting on the front line and instead lead from the rear. Just as Raynor could assume that within the Command Centre before him, the ranking officer was no higher than major. Some things never changed.

Raynor's other big gamble was that they would have neither the time nor the inclination to deploy Missile Turrets. Not only did they take time to build, but they were no doubt aware that his militia had many more Marines than any other troop. A Missile Turret, lacking a mind, would be unaffected by his telepathic invisibility and call the attention of those who could easily destroy him.

He peered cautiously round the side of the supply depot, taking care to keep well under the cover of shadow. This side of the planet was still nightbound, and the only light came from the stars, filtered through the radioactive fallout dust which choked the planet's air, and the powerful arc headlamps of the buildings and vehicles deploying in swarms. However, in the dark penumbra sharply delineated by everything above ground level, they only served to illuminate themselves a lot better than they illuminated him.

Everything was going precisely as he had expected. In the centre was the Command Centre, surrounded by Factories, Starports, and Barracks and Supply Depots further out. Patrols of Marines rushed from place to place, everywhere, while on the far perimeter of the camp Siege Tanks were, one after another, rolling slowly into place and transforming into Siege Mode. In the air, Battlecruisers had taken up stationary defensive positions while Wraiths screamed around the outer edges, keeping the air safe for hypocrisy.

Raynor activated his personal cloak again, amazed at how easy it had become. It seemed that whatever had forever sprained in his mind was going to stay that way. It felt less wrong by the minute.

He checked the nuclear targeting device, strapped to his left wrist. Soon would be the optimum time to activate it.

For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. These people weren't responsible for Arcturus's power-mad dreams of conquest. They were grunts, like his own men. Just people doing a job.

Every army he'd ever fought in, he'd always had the same thought, and he'd always gone on to fight and kill with the best of them.

Ours not to reason why, eh soldier?

Ah, crap.

Wobbling into view over the roof of the Command Center was the egg-shaped hull of a Science Vessel. Raynor cursed. Like the Missile Turret, it too had detectors that could strip away his psionic invisibility. If it came near him spotted him, he was finished.

He had no idea why they were being used here. No doubt to aid in blasting out of the sky what few Wraiths he had got.

The black egg lurched through the sky, following seemingly idiosyncratic vectors and looking about to crash into Battlecruisers or other vessels with every movement. Jim watched it like a mouse watching an owl. If it came anywhere near him… But as it pitched about, it seemed to be operating at random. Jim wondered if it had been hooked up to a director-by-chance. The likelihood of it coming near him, one man in this whole theatre of war, was vanishingly small.

And yet in direct contradiction of all his hopes and dreams, the belighted egg wheeled in a small radius in space and came directly towards him.

'Shit!' Raynor swore, one hand going automatically to his belt as the other sought to unsling the canister rifle from his back. It took him a few seconds to realise what he was doing.

As the Science Vessel floated swiftly nearer, lights flashing in mind-bending patterns, Raynor selected a Lockdown canister by feel and rammed it into the breech of the rifle. Of course – this was bound to work. The Ghosts' subliminal training was obviously more complete than even he had realised. But at what cost…

If it got to him before he got to it, that would be the end; but it seemed unlikely as, fully cloaked, Raynor leapt out into full light and fired the Lockdown shell at the Science Vessel at maximum range. His mark was true. Just as it would have got into detection range of him, the shell cracked against its hull and the vessel stopped its mad flight immediately. A translucent screen of energy shone around it as it hung, all systems locked and inoperative, in the sky.

Immediately people caught sight of it and there were shocked yells and shouted orders. For Raynor, there was no more time to think. It was now or never.

Still in his position on open ground, he reached over to his left arm and tapped the controls on the instrument there with utter, programmed precision. Ignoring the increasing hubbub surrounding the locked-down vessel, he sighted along his arm at the distant Command Centre and triggered the final activation sequence.

Hundreds of metres ahead of him, he knew a tiny, winking red laser light had just come into being on the wall of the building.

'Nuclear launch detected,' said the AI calmly inside the hoverbike to the side of him.

No doubt it said the same in every other vehicle or communicator throughout the whole of the camp ahead of him, but its very calmness gave the lie to the reaction. All hell broke loose. All Marines immediately started running like blazes towards any available exits, before the panicked and yelled orders from their sergeants were reinforced through their neural implants and brought them to a shuddering halt. The Wraiths started to scream in every direction – most by preference away from the camp. The Siege Tanks started ponderously to transform to their mobile forms.

It was all futile, Raynor thought. He doubted they'd have any time left to escape. Concentrating with all his will on keeping his cloak activated, he trained his arm on the distant target as steady as a rock. He was now able to calculate, thanks to his indoctrination, the precise length of time it would take the nuke to get here. It was only a few seconds, but he was well aware that it would last forever. For some that day, of course, it would be the last few seconds of their lives.

By now the Dominion officers had connected the lockdown of the Science Vessel with the activation of a Ghost attack and Marines and Wraiths were flooding into the area from all sides. But of course, they couldn't see Raynor. There had been, as before, neither time nor inclination on the part of the Dominion to take time in building a Comsat Station and so there was no other easy way to detect him. The only hope might have been that such was the press of Marines, one might have simply ran into him. But with a power Raynor didn't know he had, he found the strength from somewhere to reach out and direct their minds to search behind some other building. He shocked even himself.

And then there was no more time for anything else.

There was a light in the sky, a roaring, and then something rocketed overhead at supersonic speed. Jim abandoned all other tasks, including aiming and maintaining his cloak, and hurled himself bodily into the open canopy of his Vulture – still parked behind the Supply Depot at the very edge of the camp. He collapsed into it painfully, precisely the wrong way around, but still managed to slam the switch that closed the front panel.

Of course, he didn't see the blast, but he saw the sudden explosion of light all around which made the pale dawn – for night had come to an end – brighter than a thousand suns. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The ground shook beneath his chariot and outside the soundproofed hull, there was a blast and a roar that seemed fit to shatter the steel.

And then Raynor's mind, already taxed and somehow altered by the psionic exertions of continual cloaking and mental suggestion, seemed to open up and encompass the whole of the ground zero explosion beyond him. He felt, for the briefest of moments that lasted for every lifetime it contained, every mind that perished in that nuclear holocaust. He knew their every dying thought, their every first memory. He knew the sum totality of every one of those souls, and his mind reeled.

Is this what the Ghosts feel as they do this? he wondered calmly, as the forces of the apocalypse were unleashed on the very planet around him. No wonder they are as they are. To know the power to snuff out so many beings, of such a phenomenal individual complexity. To feel this is no longer to be human.

Above all else, he knew the true nature and power of entropy.

As the sound and fury of the nuclear explosion faded, he opened his eyes, and found himself somehow sitting upright in the saddle of his Vulture. He did not need to look around to know that all life in the vicinity of the explosion, save for a few pathetic Marines cowering behind the perimeter of the camp, had been extinguished. He knew it as clearly as he knew his own intelligence. Somehow, he realised that he knew all things. He was aware that he, himself, was the Universe.

Still on this transcendental plateau, he wondered calmly where to carry out the next nuclear attack on the Dominion forces. Equally calmly, he realised from somewhere that this would not be necessary. He had won.

He was proven right.

At that moment, the early dawn turned dark again. Raynor looked up in surprise – jolted down to purely human consciousness, to know the eternal pain of loss – to see what was blocking out the light.

The sky was filling with the characteristic yellow metal of the Protoss, as a whole fleet of their vessels materialised seemingly out of nowhere. On Raynor's dashboard, a frantic communicator light began to blink indicating that someone back at his own base wanted to speak to him, urgently. He could guess what it was about. He could only stare up at the appearing fleet in shock.

Greetings, Raynor of the Terrans, came into Raynor's mind in aged, dry, weary tones.

'Zeratul!' gasped Raynor, speaking aloud in his surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

Rescuing one of my new brethren, responded the Protoss psionically. Along, of course, with his subordinate armies. We all need those.

'Rescuing one of your new brethren?' Raynor could only splutter helplessly, even as a Protoss transport detached from the fleet and came heading towards his bike. 'Who? What are you talking about?'

Zeratul laughed, a ghostly, lungless laugh that only existed on the telepathic plane and felt like icy water and dry leaves. Welcome to the ranks of the Dark Templar, Terran Raynor, was all he said as the transport took Raynor's bike into its belly.

After that, nothing was ever the same again.

Now. 9. Demeter's Search

Despite his wife's pregnancy, Raynor was still heavy of heart as he headed for home at the end of the day. Apart from the day's routine business of low-level and quite possibly redundant law enforcement, he had carried out his promises to the young Wraith pilot. He'd had Tom Kazansky, the finest pilot of his generation, carry out a low-level scouting mission over as large an area as had seemed sensible. He'd spotted nothing. He'd had Magellan, the finest scientific mind of the Dominion and past master of detection technology carry out a sensor sweep searching for the unique serotonin-enhanced biological signatures of the Ghosts. Apart from a couple of other Ghosts in the colony, Kerrigan, and very oddly, Raynor himself – which Magellan was unable to explain except as a glitch in the equipment – there had been no reading for the girl. All was blank.

Now Raynor had to go home and ask his wife to do a psi-sweep for other psionically active beings. And for some reason, he felt quite apprehensive about the prospect.

There had always been the tacit fear, on Raynor's part, that any exertion of her inhuman powers might reverse her genetic cleansing and start a mutation back into an Infested form. However, he knew this to be false. For one thing, he'd had private discussions about it with Magellan, who assured him it was impossible. Also, Kerrigan had been psionically active since long before she was a Zerg, and her powers had been within recognisable human limits.

Raynor sensed guiltily on some level that his fears were borne out of prejudice. Telepaths had long since been viewed with hatred and suspicion by the other Terrans, and their almost global recruitment into the ranks of the murderous Ghosts had not improved their position. He himself had always prided himself on being open minded, but had been in the unenviable position of having a lover who could read his mind. He'd always hoped he'd gotten over it, but perhaps…

In any case, he had to ask. His duty as Marshall demanded it.

'Hello, sweetheart,' said Sarah as he walked through the front door of their home and hung up his hat. She was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and shorts, her red dreadlocks tied back except for a few wisps at the front, her long legs ending in huge military boots, looking enormously attractive. She leaned back to kiss him on the mouth as he walked up behind her. They shared a moment in which the food could be left unattended.

'What's cooking?' he asked after they broke off.

'I thought I might try making home-made gnocchi with pesto,' she said.

'Sounds great,' said Raynor in utter incomprehension, and wandered off to shower and change.

When he returned, the food was ready. It was, as was usual with the food they cooked (both had found a certain unexpected talent) orgasmically delicious.

'So what did you do today?' asked Sarah offhandedly between forkfulls, yellow eyes gleaming out from under the falling-forward orange mane.

Raynor swallowed. 'Well. I had to handle this missing person case.'

'Really?' said Sarah in studied casualness, staring at him fixedly. Raynor felt oddly uncomfortable. 'Who was it?'

'It was Belinda Lister. One of the Ghosts.'

If Sarah knew who this was she didn't react. 'Oh. That's… worrying.'

In a nervous pause, Raynor plunged on ahead. 'She's young, living with this guy. She disappeared a couple of days ago. Nobody's seen her since then.'

'Maybe she got fed up with Mr. Right, decided to take off and leave him,' shrugged Kerrigan, toying with her food with a fork.

Raynor felt oddly incensed by this. 'I don't think so! They seemed perfectly happy together. And usually someone finds out about that kind of thing. I think it's more likely she had an accident – maybe Zerg.'

Kerrigan looked up. 'Zerg?' she said questioningly.

'Zerg,' responded Raynor emphatically.

'Isn't the colony well-defended?'

'It would seem not. The other day, me and Kazansky found-' Raynor realised what he was saying, and too late shut himself up by main force.

'What? What did you and Kazansky find?' asked Kerrigan coldly.

'Nothing. Nothing at all.' Raynor muttered.

Kerrigan looked away in anger. 'Fine.' She laid into her dinner, forcefully.

After a substantial pause, Raynor resumed. 'Anyway, I had Kazansky and Magellan sweep the area. They didn't find her. I did suggest to her boyfriend that there was one more thing I could try.'

'Oh? And what might that be?'

'That you could do a psi-scan of the area and try to sense her.'

Kerrigan looked up, stared out of the window into the freezing ashworld night.

'You thought I could do that, then did you?'

Raynor felt an uncharacteristic and rootless frustration well up deep within him. For some reason, he was reminded of Zeratul, and Tassadar. He could almost see their shouting faces…

'Look, it was just a suggestion. I don't know how your psionic stuff works. I just thought it most likely you could detect a fellow Ghost, if anyone.'

'That may be so,' she muttered. 'But what gives you the impression I would want to?'

Raynor was dumbfounded. 'Why shouldn't you? Aren't you the colony counsellor?'

'Hmm. And yet contact with a fellow Ghost would likely not be healthy for both of us. You know exactly what I'm talking about.' She stared at him pointedly.

No, Raynor did not. 'Well, what? How can it be so terrible? All you have to do is see if you can make contact, see if you can find where this woman is. She may be dying out there.'

'What gives you the impression that this thing of which you speak is even possible? What do you know about the status and the powers of being a Ghost? What makes you such an expert on parapsychological phenomena, all of a sudden?' She glared at him, eyes blazing.

James was taken aback, but it rapidly took the form of righteous anger rather than retreat. He'd had no idea that his wife – despite her status as the devastator of races, and conqueror of worlds – could be so selfish. 'Look, why can't you at least try this simple thing?' he raged. 'That's all I'm asking. This is one of my people out there, who may be dying in agony. One of my people who've stuck with me through thick and thin, on Tarsonis and Shakuras and in the attack on this blasted world!'

Kerrigan stared at him, and as she did so it seemed that both their anger drained away. Under that neutral stare, Raynor felt confused somehow. He felt sorry for shouting, but didn't say it. Something told him to stand his ground.

'Very well then James,' she said quietly. 'I will do what you ask. But understand, what I look for may already be a phantom, and what I find may well not be what you wanted.'

'Okay. As long as you try. That's all I'm asking,' Raynor muttered, lowering his gaze to his food.

'Fine. Consider it done.'

They did not speak of the matter again.

Then. 9. Oedipus and the Sphinx

'Oh. Ohohohohoh. Oooh. Oooh baby.'

The rasping groaning pursued Conor, female scion and last surviving bearer of the name and Ghost status, in her sickened rush from Arcturus's master bedroom to its adjoining bathroom. Each room was lined with mirrored tiles, which reflected everything within to a multiplicity of infinities. In theory of construction no doubt, it was meant to provide no place in which an assassin could hide. Currently though, it served what had no doubt been its more intended purpose. Currently it reflected Arcturus's disgusting body throughout both rooms. Reflected every inch of Conor's slender nudity.

She spun both taps loud enough to disguise what she was doing in there.

'Man, that was fantastic,' grated the desert-dry tones of the naked, lolling, power-mad dictator from the other room. 'You're better than the painted courtesans of any spaceport, and you've definitely got a tighter body. You know stuff I'd never even dreamed existed.'

'I had a good teacher,' she called out, though her every fibre screamed with revulsion and horror at what she'd just done. A Ghost to the last though, despite what her mind and voice were thinking and saying her body was carrying out its duty. Still naked and unwashed, she was rifling through a casually dumped makeup bag. A surprisingly large makeup bag. One shielded against the most potent detection technology the Confederacy – and thence the Ghosts – had had.

'Yeah, it was definitely a good idea taking your brother's offer,' called Arcturus. His voice took on a sour note. 'Despite the failed attack.'

'I'm sorry,' called back the Ghost, though she was anything but. She'd been well aware of the failed attack during the night's work. It had led to their coupling being much more… savage… than it perhaps might have been. She shuddered at the memory, but was careful to keep her long, smooth thighs pressed together.

What she'd been forced to do – and with a smile – last night had turned her stomach worse than any of the multitudes of murders she'd carried out as a Ghost; and to a girl who'd been sleeping with her brother since puberty, this was no mean feat. And Arcturus had been careful not to let her know anything of how, exactly, the attack had failed. His violence had been enough for a mere concubine as evidence.

Still, through other means she knew about it. She knew due to the telepathic linkup the Cabal of Ghosts – supposedly disbanded – had maintained. She knew from those strategically placed near positions of command how, before any serious losses had been inflicted on the Former Colonial Militia, a surprise nuclear attack (believed to be impossible, since the Cabal of Ghosts were all under constant guard during the battle) had weakened the Dominion attack, and then a huge force of Protoss had appeared and spirited Raynor and his forces away.

'Come back to bed now, sweetmeat. I'm ready again.'

She could see this perfectly well through the reflections, but what she was doing was blocked by her body. She had gathered from the bag a spatula and a vacuum-walled bottle. It was the work of a moment to pass the spatula between her legs, smear the mess into the bottle, and secrete both away again. And with that action, she and the full massed psionic might of the Cabal of Ghosts who danced telepathic attendance on her actions knew that the fulfilment of their plan was at hand.

She turned from the bathroom and stood naked in the doorframe, arms outstretched, legs and body open. Arcturus reclined, leering, on the bed.

'I'm ready too,' she said, and walked towards him. Now at last, she could bear the perversions and the pain she would have to endure. She had set in motion the mechanism of the Ghosts' final ascension, and at last she was free to pursue her own goal of revenge.

Then. 10. Anchises in the Underworld

Shakuras, the Dark Templar homeworld, was a chill place of perpetual twilight and blue, wind-swept basilica. True daylight and dawn never came here, and the place seemed eternally deserted… save for eerie sounds as though of movement, and whispers to those sensitive enough to hear. It was enough to un-nerve the most sceptical of men, and Space Militia, whose lives rested on any number of totally uncontrollable factors, were never anything except superstitious.

To Raynor's men, life on Shakuras hit them every day as cold, alien, and remorseless. The rocky ground was paved over with flagstones of blue metal, save where it broke over twilight lakes and impassable gorges. Blue lamps of alien operation and power source rose from the ground and the metal, organic-seeming walls, serving frequently as the brightest source of illumination. None had yet discovered whether agriculture was possible here, but of a certainty, the planet's custodians did not practise it. The custodians who were never seen, who existed as whispers… as footfalls… as ghosts.

On some level, varying with the intelligence and the credulity of the individual, each knew that this was because the custodians were the Dark Templar, Protoss masters of entropy, who went invisible at all times save for necessity, due to their unrelenting persecution at the hands of their own people. Each knew, too, that but for the intervention of the Dark Templar upon Tarsonis they would not now be alive, or instead of cold blue basilica they would be facing the torture chambers of Arcturus.

Yet, as humans tend to do, all this was ignored in favour of the perceived discomfort of the here and now.

One night (day? Twilight hour?) Tom Kazansky and Magellan stood at a rendezvous some way out past the boundaries of where Raynor's men had placed their buildings and their spacecraft. They stood atop a large artificial plateau of basilica raised a story from the floor by the ubiquitous curved walls, accessible only by smooth and treacherous blue-metal stairs clearly designed only for a Protoss physiology. Like so much upon this planet, the structure was a miracle of alien, beautiful civil engineering, but of unknown purpose. Whether meeting-ground, market place, dwelling or law court, it was deserted. Kazansky and Magellan were the only sentients for miles around…

… for all they knew.

'The moon is down.' muttered Kazansky morosely. For him, this was the height of purple prose.

Magellan was silent, staring off into the horizon, making the occasional android twitching movement.

'Anyone around?' growled the pilot. He seemed discomfited, which for him, was the height of agony.

'Their cloaking system is utterly, utterly fascinating,' said the construct raptly, by way of a reply. 'Far superior to the telepathic cloaking field of the Ghosts, or the skin-effect of the Wraiths. They actually use entropy to manipulate the laws of chance and probability, making light bend around them.'

'Wonderful. Wonderful,' rasped the pilot. 'It would be much more useful to know if there were any of them arou-'

Adun Toridas, breathed coldly into their minds from out of the ether.

'Aaaaaah!' gasped Magellan, his black-ribbed metal trousers projecting him six feet into the air. He wheeled and came down with a vast array of horrendous-looking blades extended from his metal arm. Holding them protectively out in front, he scanned the darkness keenly.

Kazansky's eyes went wide; he pulled out a pistol and dropped into a two-handed stance, back to back with Magellan.

'Jesus! It's only me,' said Jim Raynor… this time verbally. To the side of them, out of the way of the pistols and blades, he materialised out of the chill twilight.

'Ay-yi-yi!' gasped Magellan. He turned to face him, and the blades snapped as one back into his limb.

Kazansky holstered his pistol… reluctantly, it seemed. 'Was there any reason to sneak up on us like this?' he demanded. 'This meeting was pre-arranged.'

'I'm sorry,' said Raynor, his voice muffled through the cloth wound around his lower face. 'Force of habit, I guess.'

'Yeah,' muttered Kazansky, looking him up and down.

Raynor was clad in the flowing cloak and robes of the Dark Templar. A hood was over his head, and similar cloth masked his mouth and nose. The hilt of a devastating Warp Blade hung at his belt. Beneath the robes, unlike the Protoss, he continued to wear human clothes; but otherwise, only his eyes identified him as human.

And they seemed to glow.

'So why did you ask me here?' whispered Raynor, taking a few steps back. Kazansky and Magellan stood together, facing him coldly. He could sense their hostility. He wondered why. 'I cannot lose any time from my training and meditation.'

'Maybe not,' said Kazansky, 'but your men are restless.'

'They don't like it here,' Magellan added unnecessarily.

'Why?' queried Raynor in genuine wonder. 'They're safe from everyone here. Most people don't even know this planet exists.'

'Including the ones who supposedly live here,' Kazansky pointed out. 'The men are spooked. They're also running out of food… again.'

'What? Magellan, aren't you supposed to be studying the soil for agricultural prospects?'

'I have a full report on my findings, stating what foods will and won't grow, and what we should do about it,' said the construct primly. 'Unfortunately, nobody in charge has looked at it yet.'

The accusation was obvious. Raynor frowned.

'The people don't like it here at all, Raynor,' said Kazansky. 'They don't think it's their world, and they're scared shitless of the ghosts who live here. And they don't think they can achieve anything by being here.'

'Don't they know I'm learning the skills of the Dark Templar in order to assassinate Kerrigan? Fools.'

Kazansky and Magellan looked at Jim, then exchanged glances.

Raynor realised immediately he'd probably overstepped some bounds. 'Look, maybe it's not obvious to them what I've been doing. But I've learned so so much! There's so much to the universe I never dreamed existed. So many secrets…'

When Zeratul and his Arbiter and Corsair fleets had Recalled themselves and Raynor to the surface of Shakuras, Zeratul, with the minimum of preliminaries and assigning a suitable place for Raynor's men, had taken Raynor alone in a robotic transport ship to an island remote from any signs of habitation. It was clear his training as a Dark Templar was to begin sooner rather than later.

There were two things about the rescue that Raynor wondered about forever after. The first was that for him to awaken to the entropy of the universe, he would always have had to be responsible for slaughtering hundreds of sentient beings in a nuclear explosion. The second was that without that awakening, Zeratul would never have considered him – or his men – worth rescuing.

Neither of these things were ever discussed or brought up between Raynor and Zeratul. They were ignored.

You have succeeded in opening your mind to part of the universe's true nature, human, Zeratul began with little preamble, and as such you are to be commended. Few there are who could have done this, even many of the Protoss. However, awareness is one thing. True manipulation of the universe's energies takes time, alas, and is another thing altogether.

Raynor looked at him, squarely and unafraid. 'I'm prepared.'

Is your purpose to destroy Kerrigan all unwavered?

'Oh yes,' breathed Raynor. 'You can say that again.'

But is it correct, human, that that is truly why you wish to do this? You wish to do it for the good and the survival and the aggrandisement of your race, and not for the power it gives you, incomprehensible to any human? Is that why you chose the path of agony in order to gain for yourself the powers of a Ghost?

Raynor frowned. 'Yes. Why else would I do it?' And yet, of course, he doubted himself…

Zeratul looked at him keenly. Your motivations are clouded and more murky than you care to admit, he said presently. You conceal the true reason for your actions even to yourself. And yet for that, I cannot condemn you. If the Protoss were pure of motivation and goals, I would not now be here upon this twilight world. And so, I will train you. Your reasons are irrelevant.

'What ever,' said Raynor testily.

Zeratul ignored him. The first thing you must realise, human, he telepathised, is that the greatest power is not that of the mind. By itself, the mind is comparitively weak. The electrically-firing neurons of your mind can influence those of other minds, leading to that form of communication you call telepathy, but that is about the limit of their power. Do you think that the mind by itself is powerful enough to generate the fearsome energies of the Psionic Storm of the High Templar?

'Um. Yes. I suppose,' said Raynor in confusion, who subscribed to the pragmatic philosophy that if he saw something, it must be true.

Zeratul lowered his head to his hand, seeming to touch his elongated, mouthless face. A logical assumption I suppose, but it is not the case. Were those energies to flow through the Templar's own brain, naturally it would be left no better than that of its victims. In reality the electrostatic stimuli of the brains of the Protoss and Terran and Zerg are necessarily not much different in potential one from the other.

'So how is it done?'

The psionic energy is not used itself; instead it is used to manipulate the flow of other energies. In the case of the High Templar, it is the light blue; in the case of ourselves and – we surmise – the Zerg Cerebrates, it is the dark blue. Entropy.

'So this is what Tassadar used to destroy the Overmind?'

Yes, and indeed this is the only way it could have been done. Each branch of my people has grown accustomed to manipulating the flow of one energy or the other, though usually without any more than the most basic understanding. Perhaps we will never understand their true natures. Few indeed have ever been able to command both. Tassadar was one such, but otherwise the unreasoning hatred the rest of my race have for our people and our philosophies prevent most such crossing-over of study. It is therefore unlikely indeed that we shall ever advance beyond the rudiments.

'So I have to use my own psionic powers to manipulate entropy,' Raynor said dubiously. It sounded an unlikely prospect.

Zeratul gave the ghostly, telepathic equivalent of a laugh. It is not as difficult as it sounds, human. Most of us do not understand what we do, we understand only that it works. I think this will be the best first step for you.

Zeratul reached into his robes with his long-fingered, many-jointed hand and pulled out a cylinder. He handed it to Raynor, who examined it curiously.

It was a cylinder of dark blue crystal, surrounded by an elaborate arrangement of yellow Protoss metal.

This is the focussing device of the standard Dark Templar weaponry, Zeratul thought. The Warp Blade.

'What am I supposed to do with it?' Raynor said incredulously. It looked like no kind of weapon to him.

Hold it as you would a sword. I sense that you have had training in that regard.

Raynor automatically dropped into a Japanese sword stance, gripping the cylinder two-handed. It handled surprisingly well; the grips seemed to have been made to fit him personally.

However, Zeratul was looking at him with something very akin to contempt. No Protoss warrior alive ever held his blade two handed, he grumbled. Still, I suppose, you're only human.

'Thank you,' muttered Raynor sarcastically. He began to feel foolish standing with a sword stance and no sword. 'What am I supposed to do with it now?'

Now. Remember the feeling you had when you opened up to the entropy. Try to feel it again. Concentrate on the hilt of the blade. Try to feel that entropy flowing from the hilt.

Raynor frowned, and tried to find the entropy. It had been in the back of his mind ever since the battle on Tarsonis, a thin, half-remembered undercurrent of awareness. But to do anything with it…

See, said Zeratul eventually after a while. This is what I myself wield. He reached into his robes and pulled out a similar cylinder. As he held it out ahead of him, a three-foot long blade – familiar to Raynor from the few times he'd seen Dark Templar in action – shimmered into being. It was composed of dark blue light, transparent, and seemed to ripple like a ribbon in the wind. From a three-inch base it seemed to taper to a point. It seemed insubstantial, but despite its ephemeral nature it was always ramrod straight and followed Zeratul's every slightest movement.

This blade is composed of pure entropy, drawn by my psionic energy and focussed through the hilt, Zeratul informed him. He gestured almost casually with the blade, and gouged a three-foot rent in the rocky floor. Raynor's eyes opened wide. It is more destructive by far than the Psi-blades of the Zealots from which it derives. Their energy is not carrying out its true purpose, whereas ours is… Come, look into my mind and see how I focus the forces of entropy all around me.

Raynor concentrated, attuned himself to the workings of Zeratul's thoughts – by now an easy task – and studied the weird, alien processes therein. The whole feeling of it felt wrong to his mind somehow, but he tried to replicate them.

As he did so, for just a few seconds a thin ribbon of blue energy sprung from the hilt of his blade.

Zeratul nodded approval. Excellent. I knew that with the strength of your mind, you would find the river easily.

In the weeks that followed, Raynor learnt to sense the patterns and processes of entropy around him, and how to influence its movements. He learnt how to use it to manipulate light rays around him, producing a cloaking effect vastly easier – and more efficient, he now realised – than the telepathic obfuscation of the Ghosts. He learnt to generate a plasma field around himself, which would entropise the energy of any attack used against him. He learnt that Zeratul was indeed correct – the use of raw psychic power was as nothing compared to the ability to manipulate the vastly greater energies around him, present in all things and movements, unobserved.

You are perhaps the first non-Protoss to realise this, Templar, thought Zeratul later in their training, when they were practising sword techniques with the ubiquitous Warp Blades. The Protoss was the stronger by far, but Raynor's training in martial arts developed to use the opponents' momentum stood him in good stead.

Surely the Zerg and Kerrigan can manipulate these same energies? thought Raynor back, this mode of communication second nature to him now, not missing a beat as their blades clashed violently together.

They can, but I think they know not what they do, came the reply. Their powers are something genetic, innate, something implanted in them by the Xel'Naga, or stolen from one of the many races they absorbed. I do not think even Kerrigan will come to this realisation. Her poor and impoverished spirit seems bent only on conquest.

'Not for very much longer!' gasped Raynor, with a final burst of energy, forcing Zeratul to yield.

Excellent, responded Zeratul, holding Raynor's blade an inch from his head. There's nothing more that I can teach you.

'And so, my friends,' said Raynor to Kazansky and Magellan, 'that's what I have been doing. I've learned things you can't even begin to imagine! Soon, I will be powerful enough to murder Kerrigan-'

'I don't think it's going to be soon enough, Raynor,' interrupted Kazansky gratingly. 'There's something we think you'd better see.'

'What? What's happened?' said Raynor with instant suspicion.

'I think, sir, that you'd better see for yourself.' said Magellan quietly.

Raynor raised his hand to his head in frustration. It was the same gesture Zeratul was fond of doing. 'Very well. Take me to whatever it is.'

Kazansky and Magellan turned and made their way across the basilica in silence. Swathed in his Dark Templar garments, putting a hand on the hilt of his Warp Blade for protection, their leader followed.

Now. 10. The Fury's Vengeance

On the day following his confrontation with Kerrigan, Raynor got up before his wife and set out alone to scout out beyond the outermost perimeter of the colony.

He roared his bike around the low hills and badlands at combat speeds, speeds at which it might feasibly be argued he wouldn't be likely to spot anything. True, his supposed primary objective was that he was out looking for that girl. He was by no means sure anymore, that his wife was able or willing to find her. That reason meant his probable primary objective was somewhat different.

The anger and frustration he had felt last night had not gone away, neither during the remainder of the meal, nor during their long and varied lovemaking, nor as they lay naked together all night. It was that that had forced him to leave in dawn's grey light. He sensed that the fury with which he drove his bike around the landscape was a fury he felt should be directed at his wife.

He could understand, he supposed, why she would be reluctant to use her psychic powers. He could see how they were in all probability inextricably associated with murder. However, what he did not understand and could not defend was her apparent reluctance to do anything at all.

He did not believe for a second that anything of her distorted personality had survived the infestation. What he did doubt was his wife's general character.

He pulled on the brakes and skidded the bike to a sideways halt upon a low plain of brown, cracked earth, sending a curtain of it high from his turning circle. He switched off the engine and let the bike sink to the ground. He popped the canopy, got out, and leaned against the housing as he lit up a cigarette. He stared off into the distance.

Well, he wasn't finding the girl any with this course of action, and to be honest he hadn't expected to. The best thing he could probably do was to go home and tell the young man that he'd failed.

No, that wasn't the thing to do, surely?

Raynor's train of thought was broken as above him, a Wraith decloaked not a hundred feet away and came in to land close by. Was this Kazansky? No, his plane was most definitely not standard. Was this one of the other pilots? Perhaps Belinda's young man? No, that wasn't it…

Raynor began to have a sense of definite wrongness as the canopy of the Wraith popped open and there emerged, uncoiling her sinuous, graceful body from the cockpit like a snake from a crevice, a young woman. Her hair was platinum blonde and her body was sheathed in a tight-fitting black garment. She walked purposefully towards him, a slight smile upon her lips and a fixed gleam in her eyes. Above those eyes was a laser-sight headpiece.

Raynor felt the chill pressure drop of terror in his stomach. A painful thump hit his heart as he realised that he was unarmed.

The woman paused not six feet away. Her evil intent was obvious. Raynor could do nothing but stand and stare.

'I am Conor,' she said pleasantly. 'You killed my brother. Prepare to die.'

As her hand went for a knife at her belt, she shimmered and faded entirely from visibility.

It was only Raynor's knowledge of martial arts that saved him then. That, and the fact that his body moved faster than his mind did. His mind knew how to deflect the blow of a knife. An inexperienced knife fighter would draw the knife above their head in an attempt to stab down, in which case he could grab their elbow and their wrist at the top of the swing.

Raynor knew, from the bottom of his heart, that this woman – this Ghost – this seeker after vengeance who he had never seen before – was not inexperienced.

His body knew it, too. His leg shot out behind him, pivoting his body off the attacking line, and his other hand shot out across the front of his body. It made contact with an invisible wrist – the invisible woman gasped in shock. He pulled on the wrist and turned on the balls of his feet, turning her momentum into a downward spiral around him. He lifted up her wrist and hurled her down backwards to the floor. He came down on top of her.

'Why are you attacking me?!' he snarled into the face he knew was inches from his own, trying to immobilise the knife hand.

'You killed my brother, you bastard,' she hissed from inches away herself. She was far stronger than him, despite her slender appearance. She broke his grip and rolled away. He was on his feet in an instant, trying to anticipate the next attack.

'I've never seen you before in my life!' he gasped, trying desperately to think. When she was beneath him he'd felt her body against his own, had known exactly where she was. How could she have remained invisible?

'Liar!' she said, and he heard a whistle. He jerked backwards, the only move he could think of. Something tore through the front of his jacket.

He lunged forward with his entire body weight. He collided with invisible flesh and grappled desperately. As he'd surmised, her knife arm was at the extent of its swing, and he'd thus caught her arm between their two bodies. He intended to keep it there. The force of his momentum bore them heavily to the ground again. She gasped in agony as his much greater weight landed on top of her. He heard ribs cracking.

'I've never killed your brother!' he rasped. Something was screaming in his brain. He knew exactly where she was, but he couldn't see her. How could he see the ground beneath her?

With that thought, the air between himself and the Ghost shimmered, and she flickered into view briefly. Her eyes widened as they stared at each other, though only for an instant, and she vanished again. A phantom muscle popped and groaned somewhere in his brain.

'Don't play dumb, Raynor,' she hissed beneath him. With shocking strength, she thrust her hips up from the floor. He was sent flying off her. 'You killed my brother on Tarsonis with a canister rifle. I felt the blow myself!'

'I don't even know how to use a canister rifle!' he sobbed. He'd landed badly, and got up with rather more difficulty this time. And this time, she was faster than him. He heard the whistle of the knife, and all he could do was block feebly.

'Aaaargh!' He felt a shocking, piercing pain in his left forearm. Plunged through it, between the bones which screamed in violated agony, her knife came immediately into vision, stuck there.

'Your taunts avail you naught,' she said triumphantly. The muscle in his brain screamed. For an instant, she seemed to shimmer back into being again, attractive face twisted with a hateful grin. She reached out for the knife and vanished again, just before she jerked it out against the pressure of the bones. Raynor cried out in pain. He had the momentary surreal vision of the knife hanging in air before it vanished along with the rest. Blood ran from the wound in his arm like water. 'And now, the final curtain. Know that I do this for my brother and lover; his death shall be avenged!'

The strained and protesting muscle in his brain suddenly popped into some alien position and stayed there. The Ghost suddenly snapped into view with crystal clarity. Raynor's eyes widened in surprise, and immediately so did hers. No matter – she drew back her knife for the plunge-

And Raynor, working according to the impulses of something he couldn't identify, pulled the Protoss artifact from his belt with his good hand. He swung it desperately in front of him.

A three-foot flowing ribbon of dark blue swung from the blade and sliced the woman in half from hip to ribcage. The arm with the knife fell away alone. She divided in the middle, eyes set into an almost comical expression of surprise, and the two halves fell to the floor. Blood, released from internal pressure, literally fountained over Raynor. He was momentarily blinded.

When he could blink the horror from his eyes, he found himself standing over a dismembered female corpse, a knife, and a small cylinder of Protoss workmanship. They lay still in a pool of blood.

Raynor just stood and stared.

Then. 10. Mentor's Abandonment

Moving swiftly and purposefully, Tom Kazansky and Magellan strode over the blue metal of the Dark Templar homeworld. Drifting after them like a silent moonlight shadow, strode Raynor, the Dark Templar.

They were heading towards another raised structure; one story in height, it may have been a dwelling. From far away, they could see nothing but the blue metal walls and the darker cladding of the corners. However, with increasing proximity it could be seen that a figure was standing upon the building, facing away.

Raynor cloaked and moved past the others with barely a wisp of air. Exchanging glances, they hurried after him.

The figure was standing at the edge of the structure, and before it was a crowd of people. It was quite possibly the assembled mass of the whole of Raynor's impromptu army, two hundred living souls. They were listening intently to the figure's words. Kazansky and Magellan blended quietly into the side of the crowd. Though they could not see Raynor, they could feel his invisible force of anger hanging in the air. They watched and waited.

The figure talked.

'Fellow Terrans,' it called out into the air, waving its fist over the crowd, 'what are we doing here, wasting out our lives on this alien world? We are starving to death. We are freezing to death. We are surrounded by invisible, inhuman creatures. Our enemies rule the galazy unchallenged. And for what?

'We have been abandoned here, my fellow Terrans, left behind by a war that is destined to know no conclusion. Our commander is no more. He has become an alien himself. Which of you has seen out Commander Raynor these past weeks? Where is the victory which he promised?

'The victory Commander Raynor promised is a phantom. It is destined never to be achieved. While he chases his chimerical dreams of alien, unknowable, unattainable powers, we sit here on Shakuras, starving, rotting, freezing away. And I tell you know that we do not have to make this choice.

'We, Colonial Militia, can seize victory for ourselves on our own terms. I can show you tactical secrets of the Confederacy Covert Ops that will enable us to strike at the Zerg from within. We can evade their most potent defences and strike directly at the base of the Queen of Blades Kerrigan herself with our most potent space-class weaponry. With her gone, the Zerg broods under her control will be literally headless, and we can decimate them at our leisure.

'My friends, take my lead and I will show you victory. Forget Raynor's pipe dreams of bizarre powers! How many of you consider it likely he can sneak through the whole of the Zerg Horde and cut down Kerrigan, compared to the chances of our combined might? Come with me, and we will sweep our enemies from the galaxy!'

There were murmurs of approval from the crowd and a few scattered cheers. Magellan thought they might come from plants. Kazansky thought they might come from the speaker's significant other.

The cheers cut out abruptly.

WHO ARE YOU THAT YOU UNDERMINE MY AUTHORITY THUS? came a telepathic blast so powerful that everyone present winced.

In front of the speaker, the crowd opened up like a rapidly expanded bubble, moving aside in shock as though acted on by forces beyond their control. Within the open circle de-cloaked Jim Raynor, clad in his flowing Protoss cloak and robes, a mask around his face and a hood and turban over his head. His eyes seemed to glow orange with rage, yet they were the only parts of him that could be seen. He waved a gauntleted fist at the speaker.

There was a gasp of shock at his appearance, and the assembled crowd backed away even further. His appearance was certainly… dramatic.

And yet only Kazansky and Magellan, wincing and lowering their heads to their hands, knew that Raynor was making exactly the wrong impression.

IDENTIFY YOURSELF, TRAITOR! sent the only human Dark Templar in existence.

The speaker gazed down calmly from the building's roof.

'I am Belinda Lister, one-time Ghost of the Confederate Covert Operations Division,' she said confidently, 'and there's no need to shout. I am as fully capable of telepathy as are you.'

Raynor advanced to the edge of the building and leapt, seemingly without effort. His leap carried him up the entire story height of the building and he landed lightly upon its roof. There were more gasps from the crowd. The Ghost's eyes opened wide, and she backed away slightly. Raynor advanced on her threateningly.

'Hey!' called out a furious, frightened, slightly cracked yell from the crowd. A young man with a red face pushed his way to the front. It was that same young man who, many months later, would be asking Raynor to find that same young woman. 'Leave her alone!'

There were yells of agreement from the crowd and more than a few angry mutterings. Raynor halted, somewhat belatedly. He caught the upturn of a smile at the side of the Ghost's mouth. Raynor turned to the crowd – far too late – and spoke normally.

'What's going on?' he called out. 'Why are you listening to her? Do you want to get yourselves all killed?'

'She's got a plan, Raynor!' shouted out some unidentifiable barrack-room lawyer. 'Not like sitting here on our duffers waiting for you!'

'I explained my plan to you all, after the Dark Templar brought us here!' called out Raynor, holding out his arms in a gesture of supplication. His cloak and robes flowed out beside hjm and fluttered in the chill wind like nightwings. 'I learn the powers of the Dark Templar, and assassinate Kerrigan! We had an agreement!'

'No human can have such power!' the Ghost shouted – Raynor noticed, facing towards the crowd and not to him. 'Evolution demands it. And not even the deadliest of Dark Templar could hope to assassinate Kerrigan in any case.'

'And yet, with my plan, mine is the only life that needs to be risked!' Raynor appealed desperately to the crowd. 'And I can, and do, wield the powers of the Dark Templar. You have seen me demonstrate them.' He reached into his robe and pulled out his Warp Blade. He activated it and passed it slowly in front of him, staring at the crowd through the transparent, dark blue, rippling blade. The crowd gasped in unison.

The young man made a start towards the edifice. Raynor deactivated his blade in a hurry.

'Raynor cannot hope to defeat the Zerg Queen on his own!' called out the Ghost passionately, raising one slender, bare arm to the heavens. 'She will see through his psionic defences, rape his mind for our secrets, come and pick us off here as we wait stranded without leadership! We must strike united against the Zerg, or not at all!'

'With my plan, my own life is the only one to be risked! You others can live out your lives in peace! It's the sensible, logical thing to do!' called out Raynor desperately.

And yet, as his gaze turned to his opponent, he realised that his men would, in common with their fellows throughout the ages, have sense and logic furthest from their minds.

The woman speaking against him had feathery, very light blonde hair down to her shoulders. Her light eyes of indeterminate colour blazed with passion in her beautiful face as she held the crowd within her long, slender arms of flawless skin. Her lithe, trim figure was clad in a tight, sleeveless vest, black combat trousers and heavy boots. A canister rifle was slung across her shoulders, its ammunition hung from her belt. Though only just seventeen, she looked every inch the woman, every inch the leader, every inch the expert warrior.

Raynor looked every inch the alien Dark Templar, and in a blinding flash he knew that his men's trust and belief, fading from the moment he left them to train with Zeratul, had finally evaporated, faced with a leader who was attractive, convincing and above all, one of them.

Catching him looking at her, the girl winked – so rapidly that Raynor could hardly believe he'd seen it. Had he imagined it?

'So warriors, make your choice!' she called. 'Do we stay here, or fight!'

A roaring, wordless cheer accompanied by a sea of fists punching the air was her answer. She dived headfirst from her stage and was immediately caught and mobbed by the crowd.

Raynor stood on the stage, hanging his head, bereft, defeated and alone. Raising his head, he saw the crowd, still bearing the Ghost upon their shoulders, heading for their landing ground in a body.

Amongst them, he saw Zeratul – standing utterly still and upright, staring at Raynor, whilst Terrans flowed around him like an island in a stream. It seemed, that only Raynor was able to see him.

Zeratul, help! sent Raynor to his mentor. My people have turned against me! What can I do?

I cannot help you, human, thought Zeratul with resounding finality. I have taught you all I know of the skills of the Dark Templar. You have all you need to defeat Kerrigan, if this is possible. As for how you deal with your own people and your own life, alas, I cannot advise you on that. Fare thee well. Otherwise, I look forward to our meeting in the next cycle of existence.

Zeratul turned away into the streaming crowd and vanished utterly.

In despair, Raynor walked slowly to the edge of the edifice and lowered himself carefully down. There would be no more displays of psionically-enhaced strength today. Most of the crowd had already dispersed, no doubt back to their spaceships to prepare for the upcoming attack on Char. The only ones standing still and remaining were Tom Kazansky, and Magellan.

Raynor couldn't face their stares. Head down, he shuffled past them and headed for his battlecruiser. Despite all, they still fell into step behind him.

But still:

'Jeez,' grated Kazansky in contemptuous tones, 'you really screwed up.'

Raynor waved a hand at him weakly. 'Just…'

But he was too demoralised to even finish the sentence.

Some time later, he was sitting dejectedly in his cabin upon the Battlecruiser Hyperion, his one-time flagship. He supposed, as far as he knew, that this battlecruiser along with the rest of his fleet was heading to Char to attack Kerrigan's defences at whatever weak spot the Ghost had posited. He didn't know for sure. He couldn't face sitting on the bridge in his customary position of command on a mission in which he had been so comprehensively shouted down.

He knew that he was being defeatist – if not pathetic – but could not muster the will to snap out of it. Soon after take-off he had hurled his Protoss robes and his Warp Blade focus from him in a fit of rage, and shoved them into a metal chest. Clad in only his standard combat gear, he merely felt naked. He hit bottom.

However, a gentle bell ringing aroused his curiosity.

He walked over to the mirror-black panel of the ship's intercom. According to a message, the inhabitant of Cabin 1942P wanted to see him.

He wondered whom it could be.

A few minutes later – Raynor, despite his dejection, was predisposed to deal with immediacy with any new situation that presented itself – he found himself outside the door of cabin 1942P and pressed the signaller with some trepidation. Inside the cabin, a gentle two-tone sounded.

The cabin door slid open soundlessly into a dimly-lit interior.

'Ah, Captain Raynor,' called out a musical, liquid voice. 'Please come in.'

Feeling very confused, Raynor walked into the cabin. Its door slid shut again behind him.

To his considerable surprise, the cabin was lit by candlelight – or at least, its interior lighting had been set to register that way. The wasteful practise of burning animal fat for lighting had been abandoned ages ago. The cabin showed every appearance of being luxuriously outfitted – though of course aboard a military vessel this was only an appearance. Tapestries seemed to hang upon the walls, and books seemed to line its shelves. Holograms, without doubt.

Before him, two couches were arranged around a low coffee table of brown glass, ninety degrees apart. The one he could see, to the side, appeared empty. The other, which had its back to him, must be seating the person who spoke.

'I'm so glad you came,' said the warm, musical voice, and its author got up from the couch and faced him.

Raynor caught his breath.

It was the Ghost, Lister, but she looked very different from her impassioned speech on the planet's surface. She was wearing a dress of fantastically racy cut. Two strips of material ran down from a mere tape around her neck over her small breasts to a flared skirt, barely long enough to cover her hips. The whole was of white satin, setting off her smooth, pale skin as the candlelight reflected their shimmer. Apart from high-heeled, white slippers of transparent, glass-like material, this was all she wore.

Raynor understood, for the first time, the expression of having one's breath taken away.

'Please, come sit beside me,' she said with a smile, indicating the couch to her left. Moving as though in a waking dream, watching her from the corner of his eye, he moved over to the chair and sat down very carefully.

'Have some champagne,' she said, moving over to the table and bending down whilst facing him directly. His gaze tracked down directly from her throat to past her navel. Picking up the bottle while keeping her eyes on him all the time, she poured two measures into long, fluted glasses. She handed one to Raynor, who took its stem between thumb and forefinger.

Putting down the bottle, she ran her hands over her incredibly brief skirt and sat down in the other chair, crossing her impossibly long, slender legs. From this action and how she sat, it was obvious to Raynor that apart from a brief white thong and the dress, she was entirely naked.

'I hope this mission to Char finds you well?' she said pleasantly, sipping her champagne.

Raynor leaned forward. 'I'm sure your intentions are entirely honourable, Miss,' he said with some sarcasm, looking directly her in the eye, 'but I cannot help but feel, when you invite me to your apartment dressed like that and offer me champagne, that there's some kind of hidden agenda operating here.'

She raised her feathery eyebrows and twitched her mouth up. 'You have to ask?' she said, indicating her nearly-naked body with the merest gesture.

Raynor smiled, very slightly and very grimly. 'Lady, don't take me for a fool. Your advances are very… flattering. However, you are an extraordinarily attractive seventeen year old. I am a balding Space Marine, pushing thirty. Please don't insult my intelligence. Now what was it you wanted, exactly? Forget this crappy femme-fatale business, and let's discuss terms.'

The Ghost looked actually surprised. She took another gulp of her champagne, looked at the glass and realised it was empty, and leaned heavily towards the table and grabbed for the bottle with none of the poise and grace she'd displayed before. She filled her glass rapidly and completely unconsciously of her surroundings, absurd dress and mannerisms forgotten. To Raynor, this made her a thousand times more attractive than she'd been before, but she was also entirely irrelevant to him. Cradle snatching didn't strike him as honourable leadership practise by any means.

'Terms? What are you talking about?' she said, and hiccuped. She wiped her hand across her mouth, smearing her lipstick heavily.

Raynor smiled grimply. 'Cut the crap.' He got up, putting his untouched champagne down upon the table. He strode over to the exterior viewer of the cabin and stared out at the stars, mentally calculating exactly where they were going and how fast. Somehow, his dejection was quite gone. 'The stunt you pulled earlier today was to try to get something, so much was obvious. Now this wining-dining is to try to clinch the deal. Let's just leave it out, shall we. What are you after? A command position? Name your terms and we'll discuss it.'

He felt her coming up behind him, and stop very close. What he heard was precisely not what he'd been expecting.

'Don't you like me?' he heard her ask in a tremulous voice.

He spun round, to find himself gazing into large, hurt, colourless little-girl eyes and a trembling, blurred mouth. 'What? What are you talking about?'

'Weren't you impressed by my… stunt… as you put it?'

'Yes, oh yes!' said Raynor, misunderstanding completely. 'You tore me down precisely as many pegs as I deserved. I swear, now and forever, I'll never make the same mistakes of leadership as I did then.'

'But you haven't made any mistakes, Jimmy!' she said earnestly, eyes filled with an awesome force that filled Raynor with some sickening horror, some nameless dread. One compounded to the nth degree as her long, slender, bare arms came up and entwined themselves around his neck. She gazed up at him with longing and admiration. 'You're the greatest leader I've ever seen. You don't know how much it means to me just to impress you!'

'Oh no… You've gotta be kidding…' moaned Raynor, and by this point, their two psionically active minds were so close he at last began to realise something of the truth. 'You mean you did that whole thing… made up that entire battle plan… just to impress me?'

'Yes! Yes!' she gasped, pressing her long, slender, nearly-naked body against his.

Raynor had had enough. He opened his mind fully and read the whole of hers – as far from being closed or defended at this moment as it was possible to be – in the blink of an eye. She gasped in shock at the sensation. He however, was merely overwhelmed, by the towering power… the overwhelming force… the magnificent obsession…

…of her crush.

'No!' gasped Raynor, and shoved the girl off him with excessive force. She flew off him and fell heavily into one of the chairs. It toppled over and she collapsed upon it, dress and limbs in disarray. Raynor was past noticing. He advanced upon her like a bear.

'You did this… all of this… for a crush?' he grated, with clenched fists.

'No! No!' she cried passionately, tears spilling from her eyes. 'I did it all for love! I love you, Jimmy?'

'You little idiot,' he said venomously, standing over her collapsed, trembling, barely-clad form. 'Thanks to your stupid teenage melodrama, two hundred men are now flying into an almost certain death. Wasting their lives.' The tears and pain and loss he saw upon her face might have caused his sympathy or pity, but right now his fury was a force which knew no barricades. 'I hope you're happy.'

'But no… no… that wasn't what I wanted!' she moaned piteously, head in hands. 'All I wanted was for you to love me!'

'Well it's what you got, kid,' he said viciously. 'Welcome to the pleasures of leadership. Enjoy them while they last.' He smiled mirthlessly. 'It's the last chance you're ever gonna get.'

He turned upon his heel and strode towards the door.

'Wait!' cried the Ghost. 'Where are you going?'

'It's too late to turn back now,' he shot. 'I'm going to the bridge. To lead the attack on Char.'

He strode from the room, leaving the young girl collapsed weeping on the floor.

A very short time later, Raynor strode onto the command bridge of the Hyperion clad in his full commander's uniform. His gaze was like thunder, and none dared to meet it or challenge him. Silently, the commodore twitched nervously, and got out of the command chair very rapidly as Raynor approached like the storm. He slammed himself down into it like the Fall.

Kazansky and Magellan, off to the side, exchanged a brief nod and walked up to the command post. They positioned themselves behind the chair in their positions as of old.

Nobody, especially not Raynor, acknowledged their presence, but they visibly preened.

'Report on hitting Char's detection range, helmsman,' said Raynor in chill tones.

'Hitting one detet out from Char in t minus eleven minutes, Commander,' she responded with military precision.

'Acknowledged,' said Raynor, and said nothing else.

There was a silent sweep of air as the door to the bridge slid open. A Ghost walked through it.

She wore their tight-fitting black uniform, festooned as it was with bandoliers, canister rifle ammunition and targeting equipment. A laser sight headpiece kept her feathery blonde hair pushed back.

Belinda Lister looked very different indeed from a short time before. Her makeup was gone, her jaw was set, and a cold and permanent look was in her eyes.

She walked to the command chair, presented herself before it with a crisp salute, and stood at attention.

Her gaze locked with Raynor's.

'Special Operative Lister,' said Raynor in a voice as cold as ice. 'Do you have the plans showing the weak spots in Char's defensive screens?'

'Yes, sir,' she replied, producing a disk from her pouches.

'Good work. Helmsman, set a course for the indicated area, and Comms, transmit the following message to the fleet.'

'This is it, people,' said Raynor over an intercom to the entire fleet he had at his command, of Battlecruisers, Wraiths and so forth. 'This is our long-awaited hit back at the Zerg. For better or worse, we're going in. On my mark, head for the following coordinates at maximum velocity. It should take us through the weakest point in the planetary defences and to where we can do the most good.

'After that, anything goes.'

Now. 11. Circe Revealed

Jim Raynor had left that morning long before his wife usually got up, and thus, not much later she had gotten only so far as dressing in underwear and kimono, wandering around the kitchen and humming.

The door opened. She heard a faint groan. Brow furrowed slightly in concern, she walked over to it.

Her husband stood in the doorway, covered in blood, cradling his left arm. More blood, fresh blood, ran from him like water. He groaned again, and staggered across the threshold.

'James!' Immediately she rushed to support him, taking the weight of his massive bulk without effort. She maneouvered him into a chair; he collapsed like a sack of potatoes. She knelt before him, trying in vain to ascertain where he was wounded. 'Who did this to you?'

'A Ghost…' he whispered.

She searched his body frantically. Nothing except blood was visible, blood that was now pooling on the floor. 'You're too bloody – I can't see where you're hurt—'

'Arm…' he breathed.

But she was bundling him into the shower, turning it on full. Water gushed down on him, turning instantly crimson. It circled down the plughole in an incarnadine spiral. He opened and closed his mouth spasmodically.

Kerrigan was pulling his clothes off him. He collapsed into the bottom of the shower tray and sat with his legs drawn up before him. Blood flowed off him in rivulets, but began to show his true form beneath.

The wound was still fresh in his forearm, huge, gaping, ugly and red. Kerrigan could not suppress a gasp of horror at the sight of it. She turned off the taps and pulled her husband to his feet.

'Come on. Move.'

She dragged him into the kitchen, dumped him on the chair again, and began to wind crepe bandaging around his forearm with cruel pressure.

The first layer turned crimson, and the one after that, and the one after that… After the bandage was almost as thick as his arm itself, it had faded to white.

'That wound's pretty severe,' murmured Kerrigan. There was no response. She glanced up sharply, to see her husband leaning back with his eyes lolling back in his head.

She slapped him, hard.

'Come on. Get up. Move. Space Marines don't pass out from blood loss. Not if they want to wake up alive.'

His eyes opened, wearing a frown.

'That's better,' she muttered. 'This bandage isn't good enough. You probably need stitches.'

'What's going on here?' he said weakly.

'I don't know,' she said, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation. 'You tell me.'

'Water,' he croaked.

She moved to attend him, but he moved first. Getting up and pushing past her, he leaned heavily on the counter top to retrieve a pint glass from the cupboard. He filled it from the tap, seeming to hold himself up against the sink. He took small sips, like a dehydration victim.

Kerrigan watched him with narrow eyes.

'So a Ghost did this to you?' she said.

He turned to face her. Some strength seemed to have returned to him.

'Yes – a Ghost I had never seen before, one who says I killed her brother who I can't remember ever hearing of. What's going on here, Sarah? And where are my clothes?' He didn't wait for an answer, but stalked off in the direction of the bedroom, still slowly sipping water. She was forced to move out of his way and stared after him, tight-lipped.

He went over to a cupboard, threw it open, and began to root through it with one hand; but for the time being, his attention was on Sarah.

'One Ghost disappears, another one appears. What the hell is going on?'

'I don't know,' she said tightly. 'I cannot tell you. What are you holding?'

Raynor had picked up a wad of clothing indiscriminately. Clearly not concentrating, he put his glass down and pulled it over his head. 'I mean, since when did people try and kill me who I haven't even seen before? I'm used to them trying to kill me, just not for something I haven't even done! And there was that Zerg battle-' Too late, he realised he wasn't supposed to talk about the Zerg battle. His clothing fell over his head.

Kerrigan gasped in horror and shock. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she stared at him, eyes wide.

'What? Er. Oh. Zerg battle. It must have, er, slipped my mind-'

'What the hell are you wearing?' she shrieked.

Surprised, Raynor wheeled to the mirror. He was wearing some kind of green robe, with a hood over his head. Some unpleasant memory jogged him, but refused to fully surface.

'Don't know. Beats me.' he muttered uneasily.

She continued to stare at him.

'Yeah, so me and Kazansky found this Zerg battleground. It was nothing, nothing to be worried about really…'

'Where did you get what you're wearing?'

'I just found it! Why is it so important?'

'Just found it?!'

'Oh, and shall I show you what else I just found?' snarled Raynor, growing incensed by his wife's obtuseness. He stalked over to the door, forcing her aside once again. He picked up the Protoss artifact, dropped and forgotten by the door. He turned with it in his hand, ready to speak-

-and his wife yelled out and hurled herself backwards across the room, flattening herself against the wall. She readied herself to fight – and stopped suddenly.

What's done is done.

'You recognise this, don't you?' said Raynor in quiet wonder, staring down at the cylinder. 'You know what this is for. Magellan was doing tests on it, I killed that girl with it, I've been carrying it all this time, and you know what it is. What is it?'

'James, put that thing down,' said Sarah, slowly, unsteadily. Her kimono had come open as she hurled herself back, and it began to slip down her shoulders as she moved slowly and carefully towards him. She seemed to make no attempt to stop it.

She was wearing only underwear. Raynor ignored her.

'Naked again? That won't help you,' he said slowly, wonderingly, wondering why he said it. He looked down again at the Protoss cylinder. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, clad in green robes.

Something in his head started to feel very uncomfortable.

'James, we have to talk. There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while.' said Sarah huskily.

'Don't come any closer,' said Raynor absently, gesturing with the artifact. The girl complied immediately. He was staring at his own reflection. What did these clothes signify? Why did they look familiar?

A whole range of emotions began to rise in him, like the tide. Chief among them, panic.

'Why don't I know what these things are?' he asked in terror. He strode towards his wife and grasped her shoulders in his hands. She gasped. 'Why can't I remember?'

'Remember!' she said in shock. 'It's just a Protoss weapon you've found. Throw it away, it's too dangerous.'

He didn't let go, and kept the weapon pressed between his palm and her. She winced at the pressure of his fingers. 'Why wouldn't you help find Belinda Lister?' he said softly, but with mounting terror. 'Why do you know this is a Protoss weapon? What am I wearing?'

'James, this is very important. You have to listen to me,' she was saying. She was blanked out by a roaring in his ears. A pressure built up behind his temples.

A memory, a dream, Zeratul, Tassadar, shouting, gesturing…

'What is going on here? What am I doing on this planet? What happened to my life?' Raynor began to scream into her face.

She scarcely blinked.

'James, I'm so very sorry. But it isn't your baby. It's Kazansky's.'

'What the hell does that have to do with anything?' he screamed full-lunged at her.

Her eyes went suddenly cold. 'Fine. Nothing. It's a lie.'

'It's a lie? Then what the hell else is a lie? What happened to that Ghost? What about that Zerg battle?

'What happened after I attacked Char?'

'James, you really need to calm down,' she said, but in her voice was not compassion, but coldness. It was the sense of someone trying to talk down an obdurate prisoner, not a husband. A distinction that was horribly obvious to Raynor.

'Who are you? What am I doing here?'

She raised her hands and easily smashed his arms out of their grip. He dropped them to his sides, shocked.

'I am Sarah Kerrigan and you are here married to me. Now shut the hell up and forget all this, otherwise you can forget the whole thing!'

Forget…

'Yeah, forget it!' he shrieked. 'None of this is real! It's all fake! A phony! You're a phony!'

He knew not what he said; but as though triggered, reality seemed to waver horribly before his eyes. His wife's image distorted as though via a heat haze, and seemed much blacker, more twisted.

True horror gripped him then. He wished with all his might to see her, and keep seeing her, as a beautiful human woman once again. But at last he began to realise something of the truth, and his head was pounding with pain…

… and she, herself, had obviously decided that there was no point any longer in keeping things the way they were.

'A fake, am I? Forget the whole thing, can I? Very well then, Jim Raynor. You bring this upon yourself.

'Open your eyes – remember – and see!'

With that, Raynor saw.

PART II;

CIRCE

Sirens

'Nice day for it, at least,' Kerrigan commented.

James Raynor only glared in response.

The two walked slowly through the streets of New Mar Sara, the colony founded by the Colonial Militia upon Char. The Earth-type sun shone brightly in the sky; there were a few people around who smiled and greeted them as they passed. Yet this was no pleasant morning stroll.

James Raynor wore the full robes and hood of the Dark Templar. The Warp Blade of their manufacture was hung at his belt, and the canister rifle of the Ghosts was slung over his back. His face was shrouded in shadows; only his eyes, seeming almost to glow, could be seen.

Kerrigan wore the full might of the Queen of Blades. Claws sprung from her back, continually plucking at the air, black metal sheathed her torso, spines writhed upon her head, and her eyes glowed orange.

Worst of all, not one of the passers by noticed this or acknowledged anything strange.

'Good morning to ye!' called out Sergeant Lynch, a Vulture rider from the army.

'Hello there!' called out the monstrous Kerrigan gaily, with a flirty little wave.

Raynor smiled in a rictus, uncomfortably and unconvincingly.

The sergeant didn't seem to notice. He walked on by, his arm around… something Raynor didn't care to examine too closely.

'So what do you want to know, Raynor?' continued Kerrigan in the same conversational tones.

'Everything. Everything. Right after I attacked the planet. That's as far as I can remember.' muttered Raynor, eyes darting from side to side. Every single building, the various military castoffs that had been turned into the colonists' homes, was infested. Zerg creep hung like tinsel off the walls. It dripped slime onto everything within and without the homes, and the smell was indescribable.

It was ignored by the passers by, like everything else.

Kerrigan preened, her mouth in a small moue.

'Well, before long you were within the telepathic range of myself and my servants.' she related. 'Agent Lister had been under a zone of compulsion for some time. She approached at the best possible location and velocity, and naturally we were able to detect her coming. Her mind had been very easy to influence. It had been weakened by some kind of a teenage crush at the time.' She smiled innocently at Raynor.

The look he sent her back would've killed a lesser mutant.

'In any case, as soon as you were within range we extended the zone of compulsion planet wide. From then on, we controlled your every sense. Your men found the planet deserted, landed here, and decided to set up a colony on a fertile patch of land. You found me, supposedly in a condition weak enough the Zerg could be burned out of me… and some abandoned female prisoners.'

Kerrigan smiled unpleasantly, with a look of obscene pride.

'Wouldn't you like to know what the majority of your men have been married to all this time, Raynor?'

Raynor stared at one of the things as it made its way down the street, arm in arm with one of his lieutenants.

It was a hideous travesty of a creature. From the waist up, it was a bare-breasted human woman – but with eyes of orange fire, bleached skin covered with broken veins, and brunette spines writhing from its head. From the waist down, it was the snakelike tail of a Hydralisk. It undulated continually on the ground to keep its balance.

Kerrigan stopped abruptly and turned to face it. The lieutenant turned blankly to face Raynor.

'Hello there,' he said. His commanding officer groaned inwardly.

'This is what I decided to call a Siren,' said Kerrigan intently, quite ignoring the fact that there was a human there. He was talking vacantly to Raynor about sport, who was trying to brush him off. 'It has only rudimentary intelligence, but two basic functions it carries out very well.

'Firstly, it acts as a relay station and carries out a continual reinforcement of the zone of compulsion surrounding this planet. The one that keeps all of your men – and you, James, up till quite recently – convinced that this is an entirely normal colony.

'Secondly, it forms a symbiotic relationship with one specific human being. It takes from their subconscious exactly what they look for in a partner, and projects that as a zone of compulsion -- which, like the global one, is continually reinforced by its occupants perception and belief. Thus, each man has his ideal partner, in thought, word and deed. Ever wonder why most of the colonists had perfect lives and marriages, Raynor?'

'Of course, it was too good to be true. Of course,' he grated, trying to avoid the lieutenant who was still talking despite the fact that he was being completely ignored.

Kerrigan started walking again, and he fell into step beside her.

'You ought to be glad you ended up married to me, James,' she smiled dirtily, leering at him.

'Oh, I count my blessings every day,' he said bleakly, eyeing her claw blades, her long bare thighs. 'Every day.'

They were reaching the edge of town now, and Raynor paused, staring back over it. 'I remember now.' he said. 'I remember how it started. On some level, I must have been seeing things as they really were all the time. I just couldn't…'

She eyed him speculatively.

'I remember other things, too,' he said more harshly, turning to face her and closing their distance. 'I remember all the powers the Ghosts and the Dark Templar taught to me. I won't be needing this any more.' He held up his arm and unwound the bandage. The terrible wound had been reduced to a scar – his healing accelerated with the backing of his psychic powers. 'All these are the powers I learnt to kill you, Kerrigan.'

There was a long pause.

'True, you could kill me,' said Kerrigan presently, 'or at least you could try. But what happens, James, when I die? What happens to the zone of compulsion? Perhaps all the men will come to their senses, or perhaps they will lose those sense – forever. And maybe nothing will happen if you kill me. Maybe nothing will happen if you kill every single one of the Sirens. Maybe your men will stay just as they are… seeing only what they want to see.'

James merely stared at her, breathing heavily. She looked up at him neutrally.

'Do you dare to try to find out?' she said quietly.

He stared down at her – and suddenly broke off, running down the road.

A slight smile playing at the corners of her cracked lips, Kerrigan followed.

Raynor caught up to the lieutenant and the Siren walking down the road. He ran into the lieutenant, knocking him heavily, and with main force dragged him off the roadway and into an alleyway. 'Lieutenant, you have to wake up,' he said rapidly, breathing heavily. 'We are in grave danger. We are living in an infested Zerg village. Your wife is a Hydralisk like creature-'

'Hey, get off me, Commander!' the lieutenant spat, pushing Raynor away from him. 'Don't come jumping on me and expecting me to listen to all this crap. And don't talk about my wife that way.'

'Hey, Al, what's the trouble?' called out the Siren in a horrible proto-feminine drawl.

'Look at her. She's hideous!' snapped Raynor, grabbing the lieutenant by the shoulders and shoving him at the creature. 'And look at that building! It's invested!'

The lieutenant broke his grip and shoved him hard. Raynor went flying back helplessly and fell backwards into the dirt.

'Hey, Commander, you got a serious attitude problem!' spat the lieutenant, rolling up his sleeves threateningly. Kerrigan had arrived now and was standing at the periphery of the scene, smiling openly. 'Don't come near me and my wife again!'

'Jerk!' spat the Siren.

Raynor picked himself up in the dirt to a sitting position, shook his head as though to clear it. Suddenly, he barked:

'Attention, Lieutenant! Make ready for parade inspection!'

The lieutenant immediately snapped into an attention stance, and saluted crisply. 'Lieutenant Lyndon reporting, Sir!' he snapped out. Kerrigan's smile faded, and the Siren slithered a ways away in alarm.

Rapidly, though, the light in his eye faded. 'Don't command me like that again,' he snarled, aiming a kick at Raynor in the dirt. 'You haven't earned it.'

The mismatched pair stalked off in a high dudgeon. Raynor bowed his head in defeat.

With surprising good grace, Kerrigan came up before Raynor and offered her his hand. He took it without thinking and allowed himself to be hauled up – then thrust it aside with a scowl.

'You see, James?' said Kerrigan, with surprising compassion. 'Your men see what they want to see, and they don't take kindly to being disagreed with. You can't do anything about it.'

'The power of your zone isn't infinite,' said the Ghost Templar stubbornly, dusting off his robes. 'Anything can be broken,'

'Whatever,' shrugged the Queen of Blades.

Persephone's Rebirth

'So how about the people who aren't… associated with a Siren?' Raynor grated, glowering at Kerrigan with his arms folded and his hands clenched into fists. 'How do you keep the zone of compulsion going for them?'

'Ah,' said Kerrigan, crossing her legs and putting her finger to her mouth coquettishly. 'In those cases, we generally have to rely on the background planet coverage, and the consensual telepathic belief system of the other humans. But there really aren't that many of them – fewer than you'd think. Actually, I'd be interested to see how many you could name.'

'Myself. Kazansky. Magellan.' Raynor muttered, pacing up and down and kicking dust from the floor. 'The strongest minds in the colony. And… oh no.

'Lister.'

'Yes. Lister,' said Kerrigan quietly. 'While her telepathic abilities and her crush made her accessible to my powers initially, that advantage rapidly faded. You – you'd got what you wanted. Kazansky and Magellan – they followed your lead out of respect, and your lead reinforced the background reality, because of course you believed it fully. But Lister…

'She, of course, was going with another human. He was no threat. But she was a different matter. She was a powerful telepath, and she was skilled at techniques of coercion and deception. Had she had the same unavoidable distractions you had – for which I am sorry, by the way. Raynor, you've made too many enemies in this universe – the illusion would have become unreal for her too, and it would have been sooner rather than later. She had to be… dealt with.'

They stared at each other across the dust.

'You killed her,' said Raynor heavily.

'No, no I didn't,' said Kerrigan offhandedly. 'In fact, she's perfectly safe.'

Something in Kerrigan's tone signalled to Raynor that she wasn't telling the whole truth.

'I want to see her. Now.'

'Are you sure?' she quizzed quietly, in the manner of a game show host. Raynor's temper frayed.

'Now!' he roared.

She shrugged. 'Very well. I'll take you. You would have come across her soon enough anyway.'

She turned and strode off into the wilderness. A heavy dread taking up residence within him, Raynor followed.

They walked along for about an hour without a word being spoken and before long, they came up to the wall of an impassable cliff. Kerrigan advanced straight upon it without pausing, and something nagged at the corner of Raynor's mind. By now though, this was a familiar feeling, and he willed himself to see clearly. A section of the rock face faded into psionic smoke, revealing a cave.

An illusion. Of course. No one would ever have found her.

Kerrigan strode into the cave, and Raynor followed her.

He had half expected guards, but there were none. Kerrigan was evidently so sure of the zone of compulsion that she had not imagined that anyone would have found the place, or considered it significant. Naturally, she hadn't known about Conor's sister's hunt for revenge either. Or did she…

Such thoughts faded from Raynor's mind and were replaced by deep-seated nausea. The cavern was thick with creep, which sent off a stench and an unholy phosphorescent light. Their feet were beginning to sink inches deep into the fleshy material, and the tunnel reminded Raynor horribly of something gynaecological. There was an aspect of his phantom life he wouldn't want too soon to remember.

The tunnel twisted and turned, to ensure that the end was not visible from the mouth, and soon they came to the end. A thick dread added itself to the turmoil in Raynor's soul. At the end of the tunnel, spouting from the creep and surrounded by spikes, was an upright chrysalis. It was the size and shape of a woman.

'So now you know,' said Kerrigan coldly, stood before it in rapture. Raynor stood heavily beside her. 'Do nothing, or you will die. The chrysalis is about to hatch.'

Inside the fleshy casing, a dim light had begun to glow, and it gained strength rapidly. Within it the vague silhouette of a human figure could be seen beating at the walls, mouth opening and closing. The spikes surrounding the chrysalis suddenly drooped, fell, and dissolved back into the creep.

With a sharp pop and a spray of digestive-type juices, a set of claws pierced through the sac. Kerrigan stepped forward, mouth opened in ecstasy; Raynor jerked back, mouth twisted in disgust. There was a vague sound of a girl crying from within. The claws jerked in and out, sawing thickly through the case, and were joined by a second pair. Soon, the casing was rent asunder from within.

A massive outpouring of placental, glowing fluid flooded from the rent, and dispersed itself upon the floor. Raynor jerked back still further in disgust, but Kerrigan paid no mind as it swirled over her thighs. From the rent forced the body of a woman. It collapsed forward through the ruin of the chrysalis.

It was the naked body of Belinda Lister, covered in horrid goo. That much had been obvious, and expected. But what was horribly new were the bat-like wings now sprouting from her shoulders, covered in human skin, and the claws sprouting from the backs of her hands.

As she fell forward, shrieking in fear and coughing up fluid, Kerrigan stepped forward, and caught her in her arms.

'Mommy…' gasped the new mutant.

'There, there,' crooned Kerrigan, struggling to embrace her, wipe off the mess and hold her upright. 'You're safe now.'

Raynor turned upon his heel and stalked abruptly from the cavern.

Raynor and Kerrigan only met up again much later.

By that time, the sun was setting over Char. Raynor watched it quietly from a position high atop the cliff face, looking down over the human settlement as the rays filtered through the heavy, dusty atmosphere. His warp blade was fully activated in his hand, but it rested quiescent in front of him.

Kerrigan came up behind, quietly.

'So here you are,' she said, almost diffidently. 'Are you coming home now?'

Raynor turned to face her, eyes wide.

'Home?' he snapped.

She shrugged, a trifle uneasily; a gesture incongruous with the awful blades sprouting from her back.

Raynor shook himself like a dog emerging from water, stood up, stretched, and turned to face her, the warp blade pointed at her from waist height.

'So what is your purpose in keeping these humans here, Kerrigan?' he asked.

Kerrigan was taken aback.

'My purpose? Simply to have both the technology of both the Zerg and the Terrans at my command. United, our two armies would be unstoppable. And all it would take for your men to fight with their last breath for my cause is to build a suitable threat into the zone of compulsion. My power will be utterly unbreakable. And maybe, even, the humans and the Sirens will breed. Then, I'll have a new super-species. Either way, I can't lose.'

There was a brief silence.

'You'll never get away with it,' said Raynor half-heartedly. Both knew there was no real threat or certainty to his words. It was just something one said under these circumstances.

Kerrigan shrugged.

'Maybe I won't. But all this is besides the point. Are you coming home?' She extended an arm, almost uneasily.

Raynor stared at it. She dropped it to her side.

'Don't you see the problem here, Kerrigan?' he asked. 'You're keeping my men here to form part of an unstoppable army to conquer the universe, you've taken one of my people and taken her birthright as a human from her, you let me live for ages as your husband still thinking you were a normal human rather than a hideous mutant, and now you want me to come back and play house with me like nothing ever happened. What's wrong with this picture?

'Forget it.'

Kerrigan looked back at him. She looked hurt.

'But this is all we have, Raynor.' she said.

'So what?' he responded brusquely. 'What does that even mean?'

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but fell silent, a confused expression occupying her as though she was struggling to put into words something she couldn't articulate. Raynor merely stared back.

'If I don't know better,' he said presently, 'I'd think that this illusion of domestic bliss is the whole reason you brought us here. All the conquering of the universe is just smoke and mirrors.'

She stared at him, eyes full.

'How do you know better?' she whispered.

They both stared at each other in silence.

'Go away, Kerrigan,' he said finally, and turned his back on her, wrapping himself in his robes.

'But what will you do?' she said, sounding concerned and even uneasy.

'I'll be all right,' he said brusquely, and started walking away.

'But what will I do?' she said louder, sounding actually forlorn.

'Go and conquer some planets,' he threw back over his shoulder. 'Isn't that what you're best at?'

Kerrigan was left standing, alone and staring at the ground.

Nemesis

For days after that, days that lengthened into weeks, Kerrigan lived in what had once been hers and Raynor's home, cooking, cleaning, going to work, as though she was a suburbanite on a peaceful planet whose husband had gone to a conference. Raynor lived atop the mountain like a hermit, the plasma shield of the Dark Templar protecting him from the elements. With his warp blade, he dug himself a hole that he called home, and he ventured out of it only rarely. He lived on food stolen from the settlement, with whose people he no longer had any contact. None of them ever asked what had become of their commander. Perhaps this was a function of the zone of compulsion, that it glossed over anything out of the ordinary. Most of the time, Raynor spent in meditation, deepening his knowledge and command of Entropy.

Every so often, Kerrigan would visit Raynor, bringing him cakes and such things which he always ignored. She would tell him anecdotes about what had been going on in the settlement, and her work as counsellor. He rarely answered her with anything other than a grunt.

'Why don't you release my people, Kerrigan?' he would interrupt brusquely every so often.

'I can't do that, James. You know that.' She would reply, sounding almost desperate.

Raynor would subside back into 'Uh-huh.' After that.

'Why don't you come back to our house, James?' she would beg every so often.

He wouldn't even dignify that with a reply.

After each of these exchanges, Kerrigan's shoulders would slump, she would hang her head, and slink away without a word. Raynor did not acknowledge her leaving.

Sometimes, the nightmare shape of Gryphon, the ex-Ghost, would go flying overhead. Sometimes, she/it would come and perch on the lip of Raynor's hole with the talons it called feet, staring at Raynor out of one eye like the bird it seemed. It wore that white dress again now, possibly because it didn't foul its wings, but Raynor no longer found it attractive. Indeed, he scarcely acknowledged her. She would fly away again without a word.

So it went, until one day when Kerrigan came to Raynor's hole seeming more agitated than usual.

'How can you live like this, Raynor?' she burst out, pacing up and down on the hole's edge. 'You never talk to anyone, you sit in this hole all day, you steal food and shun humanity like a madman. Have you gone mad, I wonder? If so I can help you.'

Raynor cleared his mind of the visions of the chaos fractals of the universe and opened his eyes. He looked annoyed.

'I am not mad,' he snapped. 'I am already twice as sane as you.'

'And yet you lead such an appalling life! Why?'

'Better than the one you have to offer.'

Kerrigan leapt in a single bound down into the hole, a leap only a superhuman could have made. Raynor's eyes opened wide, and he stood up, reaching for his warp blade. But it seemed violence was not Kerrigan's intention.

'Yeah well, I guess you're right.' Seemingly oblivious to his defensive stance, she walked to the corner of the hole and slumped down in it. 'What a life. Maintaining the zone of compulsion. Cooking and cleaning and washing up and making the bed each day. Giving the Zerg patrols their orders. Going to the centre and listening to these hicks' pathetic little problems.

'I am the most powerful force for evil in this universe.

'I am alone.'

She slumped dejectedly, her head between her bare, white knees. Raynor stared at her, a confusion of emotions crossing his face.

'I'm sorry,' forced its way out eventually.

She turned her face up to him, glaring.

'You're sorry? You who obviously thinks I'm so repellent you'd rather live in a hole than be anywhere near me.'

Raynor ground his teeth in frustration.

'It's not you Kerrigan. Just your actions. Look,' he said, the words pouring from him in desperation, 'if you wanted the dream so badly, why don't we go and see Magellan and see if he can flush the Zerg from you. It's that that makes you evil and repellent, I swear.'

'So why don't we go and see Magellan and see if he can flush the testicles from you?' Kerrigan raged, standing up and waving her fists through the air between them.

'That's different,' said Raynor, colouring. 'They don't stop me from being human.'

'Don't they?'

The argument might have gotten even more absurd, save for the fact that at that moment, the roar of a spacecraft passed overhead.

'What was that?' snapped Raynor.

'Let's find out,' said Kerrigan.

The two of them leapt vertically from the hole, propelled by their powers. Despite all the antipathy that had gone between them in the past weeks, they fell back into cooperation in the space of a second.

The spacecraft had landed very close indeed, only a few strides away.

'Some Wraith parts,' said Kerrigan tersely. They advanced on it cautiously, close enough to touch.

'Some Protoss,' muttered Jim. His body was flooding with dark-blue energy, enhancing his strength and speed, accelerating his healing rate.

'One of your boys?'

'No chance. None of them would ever have anything to do with the Protoss. It's how we ended up in this mess,' Raynor added heavily.

Both sent their powerful, telepathic minds out in the ship's direction.

'A Protoss!' Raynor gasped. 'Something is very wrong here,'

'You're damn right,' Kerrigan grated, her claw-blades flexing. 'it is a Protoss, of a power I have not felt since-'

They got no further, because the cockpit of the ship popped open and there emerged from it a strange figure.

It was clad in mostly Marine armour, but to their enhanced senses, it was obviously a Protoss under all that. One of exceptionally strong mind.

Raynor shielded his eyes.

'What do you want?' he called out.

The Protoss ignored him.

I kill you according to the contract of Arcturus Mengsk, it sent, and raised one armour-clad hand.

'No!' screamed Raynor.

But it was too late, as the Psionic Storm of the High Templar blossomed all around them.

Raynor had his plasma shield. It crackled and arced as the two opposing types of energy neutralised each other, leaving him unprotected, but unharmed.

Kerrigan was not so lucky.

She let out an awful, keening wail as the blue energy coruscated around her. Up and down her body, Raynor could see her flesh visibly blackening and burning away under its onslaught. She collapsed.

'Sarah!' he cried, distraught. He only knew one thing – he had to stop the maker of the storm.

All the previous weeks of antagonism were as nothing.

In a blind rage, he ran at the Protoss, who was still waving his hands to manipulate the attack. He activated his warp blade as he ran, holding it vertically with the hilt by his face in a samurai attack. Shocked, the Protoss dropped his storm, and tried to activate another defence.

It was too late.

With an almighty scream, Raynor brought his blade down and sliced Nemesis in two.

In a flash of light-blue energy, the Templar's body was consumed, and disappeared.

'That got you, you fucker,' grinned Raynor. Then, the grin vanished.

'Sarah!'

Aesclepius

Magellan's science facility was as cluttered as ever, such that, when anyone tried to open the door, it was difficult to move against the weight of junk piled up against the lintel. Some of the junk was capable of moving away, but that which remained was still a pretty substantial barricade.

However, it was no barricade to Raynor, as he crashed the door open, the unconscious and horribly burned body of the Queen of Blades in his arms.

'Magellan!' he roared.

'I'm coming, good sir!' called out the jovial construct, from some distant part of the facility. Raynor cursed, and hurried over to a desk. It was piled high with crap, as usual, but he wasn't going to mess around with it today. Balancing Kerrigan on one arm, he ignited his warp blade and swept off the junk from the table with a blast. He lowered the woman gently to the cleaned surface.

'Do you min- oh my,' said Magellan as he came up behind.

'My wife's been horribly burned, Magellan,' Raynor grated, not stopping to wonder how Magellan saw his 'wife'. 'I need you to help her.'

'Oh my goodness. This really is very serious,' said Magellan, lifting her effortlessly in his own cybernetic limbs.

'Chip pan fire,' Raynor lied automatically.

'This is dreadful. I must immerse her in a vat of saline antibiotic and antiseptic solution immediately.' Raynor winced. He could only imagine how much this would hurt.

Magellan rushed into another room, Raynor following him through dark and crooked corridors. Eventually they came to a larger, cleaner place, dominated by an enormous, cylindrical tank in the centre, six feet wide and ten feet high.

'Can you hold her for a minute?' said Magellan, handing Raynor the body. 'I must set the chemical composition of the fluid.'

He scuttled to a computer bank and started typing. Hitting the final key, the tank lit up from an unseen light source and started bubbling up from below with a pale blue liquid.

'She'll have to breathe through this while she's in the tank,' said Magellan, indicating an apparatus which would cover the mouth and nose and strap around the head, a pipe leading from that to various gas tanks, 'but I'm afraid to put it on now. Her flesh will just come off at the touch. I'll have to put it on in the tank.'

The tank was now filled, and Magellan pulled up a ladder on wheels. Pushing it to the side of the tank. 'Hand me the patient again?' he said, already mounting the lowest stairs.

Taking Kerrigan, Magellan took her to the top of the ladder and pushed her over the side. She sank with a splash, sinking to halfway down. Her eyes flicked open, and were immediately filled with pain. Raynor's skin crawled with horror, watching as whole areas of blackened flesh came off and floated away in the water.

'The apparatus, immediately!' Magellan gasped. Raynor handed it to him at once, and clutching it he leaped into the tank. He sank like a stone, seeming not to be affected by the need for oxygen. He fought his way through the liquid to Kerrigan. She beat at him with her limbs, but he ignored this, fastening the apparatus securely over her head. She seemed to cough and choke, but mercifully, passed out soon afterwards. She floated, unconscious, in the middle of the tank, her flesh floating away in flakes into the liquid around her.

Magellan hauled himself, dripping, from the tank.

'How does it look?' whispered Raynor, heart in mouth.

'Very bad, sir,' replied the construct. 'The epidermis and dermis have been stripped from more than ninety percent of her body. She is unlikely to survive most infections, and unlikely to survive long enough for it to grow back.'

Raynor said nothing.

'Well, sir, I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do,' said Magellan, laying a wet limb upon Raynor's arm. 'The liquid will keep her disinfected and speed the healing process, if she is able to heal. Will you be staying here?'

'Yes,' said Raynor with finality.

'Then I wish you good luck,' said Magellan, and left him to his death watch.

In the days that followed, Raynor hated himself, and cursed himself for a fool. Before him was the most powerful force for evil in the universe, naked, injured, unconscious and vulnerable. And yet he could not bring himself to assassinate her – his mission all those aeons ago – instead found himself hoping, praying for her recovery. He berated himself continually, but could not raise his blade and end her life.

The monstrous Gryphon would pay visits to the tank. With her wings furled behind her, she would stalk into the chamber like a silent carrion bird, white dress now tattered and dirty. She would hop to the lip of the tank and clutch it with her taloned feet. She would agitate the water with her clawed hands, staring down at the body of Kerrigan. Raynor merely stared at her, never speaking. It was unspoken that he would kill her if she tried to harm the Queen of Blades.

He never knew in what form Magellan saw her. He didn't dare ask, fearful it would break the compulsion. Also, he cursed bitterly the happenstance that saw Kerrigan completely in Magellan's power. This would be the best time to attempt to realise the impossible dream – to attempt to remove the Zerg infestation from her. And yet, he also knew that any human would die instantly from those injuries. She needed her infestation to survive. To heal.

And heal she did, with an almost obscene rapidity. Before long she was always conscious, and screaming continually down the mouthpiece. It echoed through the gas tanks and filled Raynor with dread. But new skin and flesh began to grow on her ravaged bones. It was more human-looking skin now, fresh and pink rather than grey and cold. Even as he cursed himself for a weakling and a fool, Raynor could not help but wonder at the girl's regenerative powers.

Until one day, Magellan pronounced her healed.

'How do you feel?' said Raynor quietly as Magellan helped her, naked and dripping, from the tank.

'Better. Much better,' she said, standing on the floor of the chamber, pale blue fluid dripping off her. Her voice was empty, her eyes downcast. Raynor gazed at her curiously.

Magellan was oblivious.

'You've had a very lucky escape, young lady,' he said brightly. He reached out with his hand and tilted her chin up. Her empty orange eyes stared back at him. 'Just remember to be more careful with the chip fat in future!'

His laugh echoed through the chamber, much too loud. Both Raynor and Kerrigan merely stared at him silently. His laughter fell.

'Well, I really must get back to my work,' he said, leaving them to it.

They merely stared at each other.

'Do you want me to come back with you, until you're all right?' Raynor said uneasily.

'No,' said Kerrigan tonelessly, 'fine.' She was still naked.

'Do you want my robes?' offered Raynor.

'No,'

'Well, I guess that's that then.' muttered Raynor.

'Yes. I'll see you later,' mumbled Kerrigan.

The two turned, and went their separate ways.

Poseidon

Raynor returned that day to his hole, and sat unable to meditate. Desolation filled him. His desire to kill Kerrigan was entirely gone, and his self-loathing was forgotten, and now all he could think of was to wonder about Kerrigan's withdrawal, her detachment. What was wrong with her?

He had seen soldiers show such depression after returned from a sojourn perilously close to death, but usually their motivation was returned to them. Typically after something else tried to kill them, he had to admit. It was as though after coming close to death, one's fear of it was increased, making one much less willing to experience risk, or one's distance from life was increased, so that in some degree, one was already dead.

He simply didn't know.

The days went by, and he sat alone, chaos theory still eluding him. Kerrigan no longer made her visits, and he only realised now how much they had affected him. For one thing, they had prevented him from going mad, from spiralling away from normal human thought processes. Increasingly he would start finding himself talking to himself, vocalising bizarre and inviable chaos theory out loud.

Eventually he decided; no more.

He got out of his hole and headed for what had been his house.

It was a dark and cold night now, and if not for his plasma shield, no doubt he would be perished. He got to their house and stared in awhile, cloaked, through the warm, inviting windows.

Kerrigan was sat slumped in an armchair, staring desultorily into space, swirling red wine around in a glass.

Oddly, she was wearing human clothes, a long, black wraparound skirt and lacy shirt. The claws were evident as an odd hunch on her back beneath her clothes, but otherwise, she looked almost human.

Raynor's heart pounded painfully at the sight of her.

He decloaked, headed for the door and rang the bell.

After a brief pause, she answered it, her eyes empty. Her face seemed to fall at the sight of him.

'What do you want?' she said brusquely.

'Can I come in?' he said timidly.

'If you want,' she replied, turning away from the door.

Raynor followed her into the sitting room, where she slumped down on the sofa again. He sat awkwardly on the edge of an easy chair. She leaned forward and poured a quantity of red wine into a wide-bottomed glass. She handed it to him silently and he accepted it, wrapping his hand around the lower bulb of the glass. He drank deep.

'So how are you?' he said finally, breaking the silence.

'Fine,' she muttered, staring into the red depths of her glass.

'You don't come and visit me anymore.'

She gazed at him aggressively. 'You didn't seem to enjoy it much!'

'I'm sorry,' he said, hanging his head.

'You're sorry,' she said coldly.

There was a silence.

'I am alone,' said Raynor eventually.

'So am I,' replied Kerrigan almost inaudibly. 'How does it feel, James, to know that you are alone and unloved?'

'I sit in my hole and I think of chaos. I think of all the powers I have acquired. And none of it means anything. I have, after all, acquired nothing.'

'I know exactly what you mean,' she said passionately, turned to face him. Her eyes and voice had lost their chill.

There was another silence. They both stared into each other's eyes.

'I asked you, long ago,' said Raynor presently, 'whether your dreams of conquering the universe weren't just smoke and mirrors.'

'I remember.'

'So, was I right? Is it true that you did this for a domestic dream?'

She stared back at him.

'Maybe,' she said quietly.

'And what of you, James? Did you really learn all those skills to come here and kill me? Or did you do it… to be with me?'

He was quiet, eyes downcast. He turned them up again, and their eyes met.

'Maybe,' he said.

They were silent once more. They gazed at one another.

'I love you,' he said at last. 'I have always loved you.'

She stared back.

'And I love you,' she said. 'Nobody ever cared about me enough to protect me before, cared about me as a human being rather than a collection of powers to carry out missions for them. You were the first person to see me as a human being. I have always loved you.'

'And yet,' Raynor sighed, 'neither of us are really human any more.'

She tried to smile.

'Does it matter?'

He shook his head.

'No.'

Both of them stood up, slowly. They stared into each others' eyes, and slowly smiled.

Kerrigan held out her hand. Raynor took it.

'Come with me,' she said, and she led him into the bedroom.

Some time later, they lay in a black embrace.

But when Raynor's eyes opened, they were no longer filled with love, but with hate.

'You know,' he whispered into the warm darkness, 'there's only one person who's prevented us from being together forever,'

'Arcturus,' Kerrigan whispered, her face nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

'One person who caused us to lose our humanity,'

'Arcturus,'

'One person who made us fugitives on this blasted world.'

'Arcturus.'

Raynor unwound her from his body, and stood up at the side of the bed.

'You know what I have to do,'

'I know,' she said, moving over to that side, 'and I wish you good luck. Know, James, that wherever you are in the universe, and whether you succeed or fail, know that somewhere, Sarah Kerrigan thinks of you.'

Perseus and Medusa

Some days later, a cloaked ship sped over the human settlement.

No-one was aware of it, but Sarah Kerrigan. The occupant had let her know he was coming, and she rushed out to the wastelands beyond the settlement perimeter to await his arrival.

She waved at the ship – a Scout with Wraith add-ons, stolen from the deceased bounty hunter Nemesis. It landed a few strides from her, as it had done first so long ago.

James Raynor stepped from the vessel, clad in his Dark Templar robes.

'I have done the deed,' he said, voice muffled by the cloth around his mouth.

'Excellent,' Kerrigan breathed. She was wearing her black metal armour, though Raynor did not award this any significance. Later, he was to acknowledge this had been unwise.

The two stood six feet away, staring at one another. Not, perhaps, the reunion that might have been expected of lovers.

'How did it come to pass?' Kerrigan hissed.

'Well. With the Wraith add-ons of the Scout, mechanical cloaking was possible.' Raynor recounted. 'However, Arcturus's perimeter defences were able to detect just such this Wraith-type mechanical cloaking. But, I learned on Tarsonis to cloak vehicles telepathically, and on Shakuras to bend light around myself. With a combination of these methods, I was able to bypass all defences down to the planet's surface, and leave the ship in the mechanical cloak, as I was sure nobody would be looking for cloaked vessels right outside the Palace!

'There was a combination doorlock on the Palace, but I used the forces of entropy and probability to guess the right combination at once. Inside there were guards, but they died not knowing what hit them; as did the traitorous Ghosts, the one group of men who might have bested me. The corridor was laden with traps, most of which were fooled by invisibility. However, some were not, and those were set off by my weight and movement. They impacted against my plasma shield, and did me no harm.

'Finally, I entered the inner sanctum. I awakened Arcturus, offering him a fair fight – after I'd disconnected all the alarms, of course. He chose bare fist fighting, and he was no match for me. I defeated him, and the penalty was death.

'And at last, I bring you… this.'

Raynor reached into a leather wallet slung at his side, which seemed heavily stained by something within it. He pulled out – the grotesque, bloody head of Arcturus. The eyes were turned up in an expression of horror, and the mouth, dripping blood, was open in a soundless scream.

'Excellent!' breathed Kerrigan, as he thrust the head back into his wallet. 'You have done well, Terran Raynor, and I will give you your most deserved reward. '

She leaned back. Raynor smiled.

The Trojan Horse

Her claw blades stabbed out from behind her and slashed into Raynor's plasma shield. It crackled and vanished, leaving him permanently undefended.

'What the hell-' gasped Raynor, backing up and reflexively drawing, and igniting, his warp blade. He held it pointed at Kerrigan horizontally at eye height. She stalked around him, grinning horribly. 'What are you doing?'

'Simple,' she said, sending feints at him with her claw blades, which he always dodged. 'With Arcturus gone, I am the most powerful force in this sector. And I will be more powerful still… with the Ghost Templar gone!'

Her right hand blade stabbed out viciously. Raynor was expecting this one, and turned only slightly and made the barest movement with his blade. Kerrigan shrieked out in agony as her claw blade fell to the floor, shorn off at the shoulder. All that was left was a few inches of naked bone.

'So it comes to this!' gasped Raynor, still being circled, still holding his blade at the ready. 'What happened to all your dreams of domestic bliss? What happened to our relationship?'

'A phanto- aargh!' she shrieked out, as she stabbed out another claw blade and it met the same fate as the first. 'For that,' she spat, 'you will experience my fullest wrath!'

'So how much of it was real?' gasped Raynor. 'Did you truly want us to be together?'

Kerrigan grinned viciously.

'You'll never know,' she whispered.

The knowledge came to Raynor with full force. Indeed, he would never know, whether the whole of the emotions she had shown him were false. The question would haunt him all of his days.

'You cannot hope to fight me unarmed,' hissed Raynor; it was his turn now to make dodged feints with his sword. 'Give up. I swear I'll be merciful.'

'I think not.' Kerrigan held her arms out before her in imitation of Raynor's own, and concentrated. Raynor could feel a vast concentration of entropic energy gathering to her, and he gasped. In her hands appeared a ragged blue shard of entropy. The double, for all intents and purposes, of his own warp blade.

'Perhaps we are not now so unevenly matched,' smirked Kerrigan, and launched a massive chop at him. He parried the clumsy blow easily.

'For Adun!' he roared, and launched an attack of his own.

In this battle, there would be no quarter, and no mercy. Both knew they were fighting for their lives, against the ultimate betrayal. The battle raged across the plain, each taking or giving ground as the moment demanded.

Initially, Raynor seemed to have the upper hand. Both had strength and speed and stamina far superior to any normal human. Yet he had the vast sword skill of millennia of both Japanese and Dark Templar warriors. Kerrigan was fighting for her life, initially.

But she was a quick study, and soon she was fighting back almost as well as Zeratul might. Both seemed tireless. Both could draw energy from the cold dark entropic void of space, and both could put it to the fullest use.

But without his powers, Raynor was only human; and Kerrigan had the toxic muscle blocks and regenerative abilities of the Zerg. The cuts and burns she received closed up automatically, whereas he could not spare the thought and energy to heal his own.

'Kerrigan, stop this!' he gasped, as she attacked him with ever yet more furious blows. 'What can you really gain by killing me? Wouldn't you much rather be together again?'

'Weakling!' she snarled, hacking at him with redoubled ferocity. 'As though that could possibly compare to being the Queen of the Universe! The Queen of Blades!'

She hacked at him with ever greater power, screaming now, and Raynor was forced back and back. He was growing exhausted, and before long tripped backward over a rock, falling down hard.

'No!' he gasped, holding his sword up to defend himself.

Screaming, Kerrigan rained blows on it, and when it finally fell out of the way, Raynor's arm feeling as though it would pop out of its socket, she slammed her blade right through his head.

A starburst seemed to explode inside Raynor's mind. The muscle that he had felt twitch so often before his psionic powers activated screamed out in agony, burnt and charred and snapped forever. The light of his warp blade went out forever with it.

At that moment, two space ships came over the horizon.

'What-' muttered Kerrigan, and stared at them. 'No!' She leapt away from Raynor, who had collapsed upon the floor, clutching at his head, and tried to dodge the laser blasts that shot her way from the Wraith. It hovered nearly six feet away, fixing her with its cannons.

At that moment, the Science Vessel fired a shell into the ground beneath her feet.

It burst with a low roar that knocked Kerrigan to the ground. But Raynor, clutching his head but kneeling now, knew this was not its primary function. It was an Electromagnetic Pulse. It would knock out any advanced technology in the area, and more importantly, any psionics and any psionicists.

His heart sank as he realised it no longer affected him.

'Kazansky! Magellan!' he shouted, staggering to his feet.

'The very same, sir!' boomed the construct's voice through loudspeakers. The vessel floated to the ground and a stairway opened up from it. Raynor staggered aboard. Behind the two craft, he could see a whole hoard of ships and buildings lifting off.

'Glad to see you again, sir,' said Kazansky over the intercom as Raynor lurched to the control panel.

'The whole colony?' he gasped as he saw an entire fleet rising into the air. 'They're free of the compulsion?'

'Yes, sir. We're ready for evacuation,' replied Magallen.

'Good. You do that,' said Raynor.

He collapsed.

Epilogue: The Return Of The Wanderer

Far out in deep space, a long way from the world of Char, a small company stood in the medical facility of the science vessel.

Raynor sat on the side of a couch, wearing a hospital gown. He was flanked by Kazansky, and Magellan.

With them was Zeratul.

They were all looking at a projection of a scan of a human brain. 'Here, sir,' said Magellan, sounding much more sober than usual, 'is the pineal gland, called the psionic stimulus by the Protoss.

'I am afraid that Kerrigan's psi-lance burned it out completely. You will never again wield psionic powers.'

'Damn,' Raynor muttered.

I am afraid to say that that expels you from the ranks of the Dark Templar too, friend Raynor, added Zeratul. It is impossible to manipulate entropy without psions to heterodyne it upon.

'Well, I guess that's that,' muttered Raynor. His words were neutral, but his intense disappointment was obvious in his every twitch and nuance. It seemed unlikely he would ever get over it. 'At least we've escaped Char. Tell me, how did you escape the zone of compulsion?'

'When you brought Kerrigan to me, the chance of her surviving as a normal human was so low it shattered my belief in the consensus,' Magellan said. 'After that, I could see Kerrigan as she truly was, and see Gryphon when she visited. I could not openly denounce it though, otherwise I would've been merely killed. However, I could persuade Kazansky of the fallacy of the consensus, and swear him to secrecy… he could convince others… and so forth.

'Subsequently, we kept up with the deception as far as we were able, waiting for your return. We needed to make a break straightaway, all together and by surprise to avoid being overwhelmed by the Zerg. But we were unable to detect your return when it happened, and we only detected the energy surges when you began to fight. I am sorry we weren't able to catch up with you sooner, James.'

'Don't worry about it,' he said in tones of utter desolation.

The others turned away, embarrassed.

'Still, we have got something out of this,' he said, trying to force some lightness into his tone. 'This.' He reached into his wallet and pulled out the grotesque, bloody head of Arcturus.

Everyone gasped as one.

'But that's not possible!' said Kazansky, for once actually looking shocked and having some expression.

Raynor looked at him curiously.

'Why not?'

They all exchanged glances, uneasily.

'I think you'd better see this, sir,' said Kazansky, and flicked on a viewscreen.

It was a news broadcast.

'Universe News Network are delighted to report that last night, our glorious leader Arcturus Mengsk survived an assassination attempt.' said a blonde newsreader, brightly. 'The assassin was apparently acting on behalf of an evil force composed of Kerrigan's Zerg, Raynor's Militia and the Dark Templar.'

'The assassin was defeated by my own hands,' said Arcturus, suddenly on screen. Raynor gasped in disbelief. 'It was folly for them to think that they could murder me in my own bedchamber, and those responsible will be ruthlessly hunted down-'

Raynor snapped the thing off.

'How can this be possible?' he breathed. 'I severed his head with my own sword. I have it here!'

Mayhap one of them – or both – was an imposter, sent the Dark Templar.

'It can't be. Not that one that I killed,' whispered Raynor. 'I saw the sum totality of his mind. It was the true Arcturus.'

'But if the other is an imposter, why then we have nothing to fear,' said Magellan brightly.

'I don't think so,' breathed Raynor. 'It all seems too… authentic. And why would they acknowledge it, if they wanted to keep it quiet?'

'Then all we can say is that we don't know,' grated Kazansky. 'And I don't suppose we can ever really be sure.'

'Yes,' sighed Raynor heavily. 'I guess we're just right back where we started.'

And half a universe away, his infant child slumbered within Kerrigan's womb, and dreamed of his father.

Gavin Mitchell 03/03/01