PART 2: HOUSES OF HEALING

THE REVIVAL OF EOWYN

The planet of Haven was maintained in a zone of neutrality by an uneasy co-operation between Raynor's Anarch Rebellion and Arcturus's Terran Dominion. In exchange for entropically-cloaked and -powered defence emplacements – of which the Dominion had no idea of the location, or how they worked – Arcturus had agreed to supply the majority of the resources and staffing of this, the only installation of its kind. There was only one purpose which could bring these two sworn enemy factions of the human race within the Korprulu sector together, and force them into cooperation; the detoxification and rehabilitation of Infested Terrans, the most feared and hated of all Zerg monstrosities. Intended by the Zerg to be destructive and self-destructive killing machines, turned and twisted against their own race, the intention of those who worked here was to reintegrate them into the pale of humanity and return them to their comrades and loved ones.

But those who worked here had found out the hard way that some scars could never be healed.

Sarah awoke and lurched to a sitting position with a gasp, with no idea where she was. She found herself in a long, white hospital dormitory, a row of beds lining either wall. Filtered fluorescent lighting showed the scene. She was alone; the beds to either side of her, and against the opposite wall, were all crisply made, and unoccupied.

She awoke also to pain; sharp and intrusive, and dull and throbbing. The sharp pain came from tubes which led into her; a drip feed leading blood into her arm, oxygen tubes extending into her nostrils, a catheter. The dull pain, though, extended over the whole of her arms. Uneasily, she pushed herself back against the pillows and headboard until she could sit straight, and pushed up the sleeves of her hospital gown. She grimaced; festooning her inner arms were a myriad of puncture wounds, ugly and half-healed. She winced as vague memories came back to her. Somehow, she had inflicted these herself.

'I am afraid that Zerg blood did not remain in you long enough to enable those wounds to be regenerated,' said a deep, accented voice to her left. Sarah turned her head, wincing at the drag of the oxygen tubes in her nostrils. Walking down the ward towards her was a tall, dark-complexioned man in a high-collared, close-fitting white uniform. He halted at the foot of her bed.

'Unfortunately you had already lost too much blood when you were brought in, and of course there was no Zerg blood readily available. Since you were also too weak to survive the Nanotech serum at that time, Magellan took a gamble and did a 100% transfusion of humanoid Type O Negative into your veins. You became strong enough to survive a Nanotech treatment, but your regeneration abilities were forever lost.'

Sarah nodded, weakly. Now she was more awake, her scalp felt oddly cold. She raised her right hand, the one without the drip feed, tentatively to her head. The skin felt mottled, and bald.

The man shifted uneasily. 'Your spines fell out, unfortunately, and your scalp seems to have lost the means to grow hair once again. But however,' he shook himself, uncomfortably. 'I am Alexei Stukov, Director of this facility. As the first recipient of the Nanotech technology, I was also the first to experience the horror of being severed from the might of the Zerg. I am thus, best qualified to help new inmates deal with the pain of coming to terms with their old selves.

A sigh escaped his lips. 'A hard road awaits you, Sarah. It is bad enough for all Terrans, but I fear that yours will be the toughest path of all. For the level of power and majesty which you were given as the Queen of Blades is so far unprecedented within all of humanity.'

'And my crimes,' Kerrigan croaked. 'How can I show my face amongst humans now? In fact, why did you spare me at all? Surely I should have been killed for what I have done!'

'Here in the Centre, we believe that all are equally deserving of help, and a chance to become human beings once again. There are few here who did not commit some crime in their time amongst the Zerg, and perhaps you will find people more forgiving than you imagine. Everyone is deserving of another chance.'

Another chance, Sarah thought. The words sounded hollow in her mind.

Whether or not Stukov was using his Ghost abilities at that point – and as yet Sarah had no idea whether any Ghost abilities, including her own, survived the de-infestation process – her thought was clear to him somehow. 'But here the odds are stacked in favour of your recovery. Here, we have assembled the finest doctors and therapists in the Dominion, and Magellan's most advanced technology, for the purposes of helping once-infested Terrans to heal and recover.'

'I was not just another "infested Terran",' Sarah whispered. 'I was the Queen of Blades. The scourge of humanity. How the hell am I supposed to "heal and recover"?'

Stukov spread his arms, looking helpless. 'Unless you will allow yourself that second chance, we cannot help you.' He sighed. 'I will have to leave you to meditate quietly alone. Soon, I believe, hope will arise within you again. In the meantime, Magellan wished to see you to check on your healing process. I say farewell.'

Stukov turned his back and paced away, leaving Sarah to hug her knees up to her chest and rock back and forth, large blue eyes (their colour restored) staring unseeing at the walls, slow tears running down her cheeks.

In a smaller room not far away, festooned with specialised medical equipment, Beatrice was lying face down on a hospital bed, her gown opened all the way up the back. A pair of briefs was all that covered her, but Magellan the cyborg showed no interest in her body. Neither did Kazansky, her lover; his eyes showed only concern, and pain. Magellan had opened up a flap in her back which, it seemed, was made of synthetic skin, and was poking about in a metal- and plastic-lined cavity at the small of her back with a variety of middling clean tools. Beatrice's face was drawn tight with agony.

'The damage to your spine necessitated a surgical procedure designed to allow you to accept modular, artificial, disposal vertebrae,' Magellan pronounced, still fiddling away.

'English, please?' hissed Beatrice through clenched teeth. The circuitry in her lower back sparked at Magellan's ministrations.

Magellan took a cylinder filled with fluid from a box and lowered it so that it was before Beatrice's eyes. 'This is what your new spine implants look like. They're disposable, you can slot in a new one every so often.'

'Great,' Beatrice muttered. Kazansky squeezed her hand reassuringly.

'The first one should be ready to install,' Magellan said. He raised the cylinder over her head and slotted it into her back. He pulled down a lever, forcing the cylinder into place with a hydraulic hiss of fluids. Beatrice's eyes opened wide with surprise. 'It's stopped hurting.' The delicate muscles in the back of her thighs twitched. 'I can feel my legs!'

The cyborg closed the flap of artificial skin; it was clearly visible in the surrounding flesh. 'You should be able to sit up now,' said Magellan, beaming.

Wondering, Beatrice swung herself into a sitting position, drawing the hospital gown around herself. She thrust her slender legs out in front of her, flexing first one foot, then the other. 'I have the use of my legs back! Thank you, Magellan!'

'Congratulations on being the first recipient of my artificial vertebrae,' grinned the construct. 'A small idea but mine own. It worked brilliantly if I do say so myself.'

Contrary to what might have been expected, Beatrice's face became twisted and bitter. 'Now all that's left to see is who to blame for losing my spine in the first place,' she hissed. 'Do I blame Gryphon for fighting me fair and square in the heat of battle, or Raynor for endangering all of free humanity on his fool's selfish errand?'

It was fairly obvious what she intended. Kazansky winced. 'He's behind me, isn't he?' sneered Beatrice.

'No, he isn't,' said Kazansky.

'I think a lot of our faction are dissatisfied with Raynor for his actions during Operation Wrathchild,' said Magellan. 'But it cannot be denied that Kerrigan was snatched and de-infested and the power of the Zerg was broken.'

'Yeah, like that's believeable,' sneered Beatrice. 'Gryphon is as likely not to take over as I am to dance the tango without one of these cylinders. And what is Kerrigan meant to achieve for the Rebellion? It will be a brave anarch who shows her any loyalty.'

'That is as may be,' said the construct primly. 'But if you will excuse me, I must go and see my latest patient.' The cyborg left the lovers to sort themselves out.

'Maybe Kerrigan deserves another chance, same as the rest of the other infested Terrans,' Kazansky said uneasily, picking up the box of his girlfriend's spinal cylinders.

'That may be so,' said Beatrice grimly, starting to get dressed once again in her black leather and denim festooned with white anarchy symbols, 'but I for one'd be reluctant to extend her the hand of friendship, and I think a lot of others will feel the same.'

When Sarah heard feet of steel come clanging down the ward towards her she swiftly wiped her eyes and stretched out her legs, sitting up against her pillows and trying to look alert. Her face fell somewhat as she beheld the cyborg Magellan, never a favourite figure of hers to begin with.

'Ah, I see you are awake,' the construct burbled. 'My latest success story. Tell me, how are you feeling?'

'Fucking shit,' growled Sarah.

'Language,' said the cyborg primly. 'Well, a certain degree of irritation is to be expected in the recently de-infested.'

'Irritation,' hissed Sarah. 'You've snatched all my power from me, left me helpless at the mercy of my enemies, and you expect me to be irritated?'

'The people in this centre are hardly your enemies,' admonished the cyborg.

'If you'll believe that, you'll believe anything.'

'I'm sure you'll feel better after some group therapy.'

'Right, like weaving wicker baskets is going to make me recover from having been the Queen of Blades.'

'You'd be surprised. Anyway, I'm sure I know something that will make you feel a lot better. James Raynor expressed an interest in seeing you after you were fully recovered. That'll be nice, won't it?'

'Raynor,' murmured Sarah. Her already pale and bloodless face had drained of all colour.

THE BLACK GATE OPENS

Lolling on Kerrigan's steel throne, Gryphon closed her eyes and sent out her telepathic probe, linking minds with the three Cerebrates who remained alive amongst the Zerg. All scattered to the furthest corners of the burnt-out planet of Char, yet her powers made it as though they were speaking to her from mere inches away. Not that Cerebrates could speak.

Tell me… she urged.

I am Glaurung, came back a thought. Mine is the talent to create mutated Devourers with power to match any Carrier or Battlecruiser.

Very good, thought Gryphon. And…?

I am Gothmog, came back another. I have the ability to create Lurkers with the power not only to bury themselves, but to spew forth ravaging flames.

Most impressive, responded Gryphon. And the last…?

I am Smaug, came back finally in tones simultaneously wily, cunning, and whiny. I have nothing to offer but the benefit of my knowledge of strategy…

Marvellous, thought Gryphon, unable to keep the sourness from her voice. She thought to herself of how Raynor's forces had gone through the Zerg like a Yamato cannon through a sheet of paper, and fought to keep her dissatisfaction out of her psychic voice. Besides, the earthborne Directorate had already been decimated. That lonely planet had exhausted all of its resources in a panicked attempt to subjugate the Zerg, and now it had nothing to fall back upon.

All of your forces are mobilised and ready to move? thought Gryphon.

The Cerebrates murmured assent.

Then prepare the Warp, thought Gryphon without preamble. We light out for Earth as though the forces of Hell were on our tail.

Thinking of Raynor, she concluded this might not be such a bad description.

ORTHANC

'Hot enough for you?' said Ruby Red conversationally. Willard drew his already-soaked forearm across his streaming forehead, but did not answer.

The two strode through the darkened, black steel corridors of a Last-Stager Mothership, the biggest and most powerful of the vessels that had came out of the furthest-flung reaches of the Western Spiral Arm, headed for Earth and finding the Korprulu sector quite by accident en route. Willard was burning up. It seemed that no Last-stager felt comfortable with temperatures less than 45 degrees Celcius, and Willard was already down to his underpants. He could not quite bring himself to do as his hosts did, and go entirely naked; the abnormally large bulge at his groin was attracting enough attention already.

Of many questions Willard had thought to ask his tour guide, the imposing Ruby Red, one he could not bring himself to say was; why now? It was clear that the Last-stagers had had no notion of the strife that had racked the Korprulu sector or the Terran race, and had no idea what state they would find their hereditary enemies in. The Last-stagers had known nothing of the doings of the true humans since their semi-legendary exile from Earth 40,000 years ago for their incestuous lifestyles and combative philosophies. Willard frowned. Another question he couldn't bring himself to ask. The ancestors of the Last-stagers had been supposed to have been banished across the trackless light-years of the Western Spiral Arm tens of thousands of years before space travel had even been invented. It made no sense, let alone why, after all these tens of thousands of years, they should be attacking now.

Willard guarded his thoughts carefully, though. He felt Ruby Red's probe frequently, and while he had proven quite adept at screening her out, he sensed that the Last-stager had powers greater than any Ghost. He had no doubt that a normal human's mental defences would go down like a paper house in a hurricane.

His host was an imposing figure. Nearer seven foot than six, she was clad only in a variety of knife- and weapon-belts, pieces of armour and technological accoutrements. She was thinner than any human; Willard had already felt the low gravity aboard the vessel, and realised that this led to the Last-stagers' height and build. Ruby Red had taken great pride in showing him exoskeletons that would support and keep warm the Last-stagers in the more punishing gravity and climate of Earth. Conversely, Willard realised that he felt unusually powerful, despite the heat. He was having to work hard to keep his steps within the boundaries of the corridors.

His host got her name from the huge mass of straw-like, red hair which sprouted vertically from her skull before curving backward in a huge mane down her back. She was entirely white, and her irises held no colour. Sharp features and a sneering expression completed the mix. Most Last-stagers looked the same, Willard had seen, if slightly shorter. Also, most were pure albino (even those that did not had little colouring) and white hair was far more common than the rare recessive-gene red and blonde. So unusual were these colours that they most often supplied names for their owners. These genetic traits were apparently due to institutionalised incest and inbreeding, though this was another detail about the Last-stagers which Willard did not quite believe; along with claims that each of them was festering with mutated venereal diseases which would rapidly kill any human which had intercourse with them. This last fact seemed particularly pointed at Willard, whose weaknesses were well known amongst his subordinates, and here seemed particularly unable to keep his eyes to himself.

A lone Last-stager female with purple hair, who had eyed Willard speculatively, had been missed by him quite early on, before he would have realised her significance.

'Thus endeth the lesson,' crowed Ruby Red, pausing on the bridge of this, her flagship vessel. 'You have now toured fully a Last-Stager Mothership. Each is capable of holding eight Drones, itself capable of holding ten Pods. Each piloted by a warrior of the Last-stagers, each capable of flying, and fighting, faster and harder than any technology you have described of the Protoss, the Terran, and the Zerg.'

Willard nodded. One thing he did not know was the exact numbers of both Last-stagers themselves and their mechanical fighting units. Since the initial contact Ruby Red had strongly disapproved of any further scanning of their fleet, and they seemed able to sense this somehow; Willard could only comply. He couldn't decide that this meant they wanted to keep their numbers secret out of a large or small population.

'On the ground, each of our warriors takes pride in fighting with dual blades, and is unto themselves a whirlwind of doom. Each warrior also has typically around ten personal servant robots, constructed by themselves; Combat Droids armed with short-range but powerful Blast Torches being the most common design for these purposes, followed by Spider Babies for long-range battle utilising plasma cannons. There are others, rarer but more powerful, masterminded by weapon design co-operatives such as Battery and Damage Inc…'

Willard phased out at that point, because an insistent psychic voice was ringing in his head. It was the young female Ghost manning the sensor arrays.

Sir! he received. Our sensors indicate a large mobilisation of the remaining Zerg on Char.

What are they doing? responded Willard.

Ruby Red had paused immediately, sensing what was going on. 'What occurs? With whom are you conversing?' she snapped.

The Zerg are all warping towards… Earth, thought the young female Ghost with tones between relief and unease.

Willard related this information to the Last-stager commander as briefly as he could. Her gaze went far away.

'So,' she hissed. 'It seems that these aliens may well be doing our job for us.'

'What do you mean?' said Willard with increasing trepidation.

'I mean, my new vassal, that we can delay our planned invasion,' said Red, lolling back on her command chair and spinning it carelessly. Various other Last-stagers performing duties on the bridge made a studied show of not listening. 'We will let the Zerg get to Earth, allow them to ravage across the planet for a while, or be repulsed, as chance will have it. Either way, we will allow them some little time, then go in, defeat the victor and subjugate both races. And we can count on the support of your Dominion exiles, of course!'

Willard shuddered. Even to him, this seemed an ill deed, but he fought to keep the notion out of his mind. And after all, what had the Earthers done for him? Exiled his ancestors to this living Hell of a sector, abandoned them to their fate as prey of the Zerg and Protoss, then came in to start another war when it suited them. Perhaps the tender mercies of the Zerg and the Last-stagers were just what they deserved.

'Yes,' cried Ruby Red, her voice rising to encompass the entire bridge, 'at last we will reveal ourselves to the Earthers. At last we will have our revenge.'

FARAMIR

Eventually, Sarah grew uneasy and afraid in the echoing, empty ward, and asked Stukov and Magellan – both seperately – to be moved. Both – seperately – ummed and ahhed, before muttering that they had to discuss it with someone and slinking away. Eventually Sarah was moved into a small, private room, flanked with medical equipment which went unused for the duration of her tenure. She could only surmise that neither of the directors of the facility wanted her in a ward with other people. It did nothing for her morale or self esteem.

Ultimately Sarah took to shuffling round the wards, one hand wheeling the rack which carried her oxygen bottle, blood drip and catheter rack, the other hand holding her hospital gown closed at the back. Her body reacted as though it was the first exercise her human muscles had ever had, leaving her weak as a kitten, but she told herself it was necessary exercise. She saw and learned little. Whenever another human approached she lowered her eyes guiltily, unable to face someone of whom she might have slain brothers, sisters, lovers, friends; or even infested. A few people might have murmured greetings to her, she thought, but unwilling to face the pity of the race she had oppressed she put her head down and shuffled past.

Except one time when she was gently taken by the arm that was pushing her drip rack.

She leaned upwards, ready to respond bitterly to the human contact, but found her jaw dropping open with shock, instead.

'Mary Jane!'

'It's me, mother,' smiled the young woman.

Sarah gasped with pleasure, thinking of moving her arms forward to hug the girl, but realised she was still holding the rack and the gown. Mary Jane looked just as she did when she had disappeared from Char. Small and slender, she had long purple hair drawn back in a ponytail directly from her face, wearing a black vest held up by thin shoulder straps and jeans.

'I'm so glad I've found you! Where have you been?'

'Hush, mother. We can't talk here.' Mary Jane looked about, and Sarah realised that all around her the bustle of people were passing as though neither of them were there. Sarah had had no doubt that her daughter was able to cloak, but was somewhat unnerved to realise that the field had been extended to herself as well.

Sarah did not resist as she was bustled into a utility cupboard, but started talking almost immediately the door was closed and the room plunged into semi-darkness. 'So what have you been doing all this time? Why did you leave me on Char? How could you just go off and abandon me like that?' Sarah's voice degenerated into a pitiful whine, and water started gathering in her eyes.

'Forgive me Mother, for all my sins,' said Mary Jane quietly, staring deeply into the eyes of her mother. 'I'm a child of the air, I'm a witch of the wind. Events move in the universe. Malignant forces return to play the eternal game.

'I have needed to walk many dark roads in order to give the scattered children of the galaxy any chance of survival at all. To escape those who threaten all that we hold dear, I have been required to choose invisibility, to move on in another body in another time. There is still hope, but darkness must fall beforehand. And I must keep going, with no surrender.'

Sarah's face crumpled, confused. 'But what does this even mean?' she whimpered. 'Why can't you stay with me? You're the only thing that makes my life worth living!'

'Believe me, mother, I would ask for nothing else,' said the young woman earnestly. 'But I must fight on, in secret, in the camps of the enemy, where they know not who I am. Only this way can there be hope.

'Remember this… even when there seems to be no hope, when the galaxy lies down in agony and all your actions seem cursed, that there is still a light burning even in the heart of darkness. A light wielded by me. And remember, that your daughter loves you. And now, I say farewell. I must leave before Raynor does.'

Sarah took very little of this in. 'Please don't leave me again!' was all she could think of to say.

Mary Jane shook her head with a tired smile. 'I have to go. Wish me luck on my dark journey…' She slipped round the door, and was gone.

Sarah bowed her head, tears spilling from her eyes without hope of pause. Later, when she had composed herself, she ventured out again into the corridor. People could now notice her once again, and she dodged her head out of the way of any eye contact. In hindsight the whole experience seemed very surreal. Had it all happened? Perhaps it was her daughter's ghost… perhaps she had died, and with that all was lost.

After that all Sarah could do was cower in her room and weep for many days.

One morning she awoke to find a pair of glowing orange eyes staring into her own. She lurched back in the bedclothes with a terrified shriek and started groping for an escape.

'Relax!' growled Raynor. 'What's wrong with you? It's me, Jimmy.'

Jimmy. A queasy feeling of recognition assailed Sarah. There was some warmth associated with the memories of a sarcastic marine commander whom she had known and flirted with in her human days, but the recollection rapidly deepened into darkness. The strongest images were of battling this man, with blazing orange eyes and a Dark Templar robe and weapon, with the fury of life and death. She remembered the agony as his Warp Blade stripped her of her wings. The hot joy as her psi-lance had burnt out his pineal gland.

The figure before her did not resemble the sarcastic marine commander from so long ago. He looked barely human.

'Jimmy,' Sarah whispered. There was unease in the voice that its recipient did not seem to hear.

'I knew you'd remember me!' whispered Raynor urgently. He reached forward and hunted beneath the bedclothes, clasping her hands within his own. Sarah was not at all sure she wanted her hands grasped, but she was far too weak to exercise any choice in the matter. 'Listen. I'm sorry I haven't had chance to see you before, but I have to see you now. The Zerg are mobilising towards Earth, and we have to follow them. But before I leave, there's something I want you to see.'

'Where is it?' whispered Sarah. She felt barely strong enough to move her eyes.

'Just a few corridors away…'

Sarah groaned, inwardly. Had she more confidence she might have refused this, but as matters stood she felt low enough to comply with anything anyone told her. She struggled from the bed, fighting to protect her modesty, and shuffled over to her tubing rack. Raynor swept imperiously from the room, clearly expecting her to follow.

Raynor led her down many more than just a few corridors, into what was clearly a little-used, utility area of the facility. It was an uncomfortable journey for Sarah, made all the worse by the fact that Raynor scarcely acknowledged her and instead barked orders into his radio the entire time, mobilising his troops for immediate exit. Eventually Raynor led her to a room which might have been a broom cupboard, ushered her inside, and followed, turning his radio off and closing the door behind him.

Sarah found herself in darkness; she swayed on her feet, finding it an effort just to keep upright. With a flourish, Raynor switched on the lights. 'Behold!' he said.

Displayed in the middle of the room was a shop dummy. It was wearing a lustrous, velvet red dress. With long sleeves and a full, floor-length skirt, it also exhibited a plunging neckline and back that was hardly there.

Sarah could not have expected anything more bizarre. Her jaw dropped.

'What is this supposed to be?' she said in a tiny voice.

'Your wedding dress,' said Raynor.

This was the only revelation that could have topped the first.

The breath went out of Sarah. She staggered, and nearly fell, black patches appearing before her eyes as Raynor, seeming to hunch and scuttle, rushed over to the dress, lifting the sleeves and turning it to show each side to its best advantage.

'It's beautiful, isn't it? You will look all the more gorgeous on our wedding day.'

'What?' said Sarah. All capacity for shock had now faded from her.

'Our wedding day.'

'I can't believe it…' she murmured. Tears began to gather in her eyes. 'You can't want to marry me… I'm disgusting.'

Raynor paused, confused. 'No… no, you're not. Why did you think I rescued you?'

Rescued… Sarah's maudlin mood was replaced by anger. 'I don't believe you!' she spat. 'You half kill me, then tell me you're going to marry me? I can't do this! Leave me alone!'

Sarah rushed from the room as fast as she was able, tears spilling from her eyes.

She retreated to her bedroom and barricaded the door, pulling the bedclothes over her head and cowering within. She remained thus until the thoughts she could pick up from outside indicated that Raynor and all his forces had left the planet, headed in hot pursuit of the Zerg, now under Gryphon's command. Sarah had found that her telepathic powers had survived the de-infestation unscathed, but what she heard brought her little comfort. Gryphon was clearly now setting herself up to be the new Queen of Blades, and who had been responsible for her creation? Not Gryphon herself, certainly.

Some time later, Sarah awoke to find another figure sitting beside her bed. Opening her eyes sleepily, she was confronted with none of the terror she had felt on seeing the Ghost Templar. Before her now was a young man with a shock of dark hair and brown eyes, wearing the uniform of a Terran Dominion Marine Captain, looking at her with pity and compassion. At his left elbow on an occasional table, a vase of flowers had appeared.

'Hey,' said the figure gently.

'What are you doing here?' croaked Sarah. She struggled to raise herself to a sitting position, unwilling to be seen to be at a disadvantage. The young man adjusted the pillows behind her, though without thanks or acknowledgement.

'I'm Duncan. You seemed isolated… I came to check that you're okay.'

'None the better for your asking,' rasped Sarah bitterly. She reached for water to wet her parched lips; Duncan leaned over to help, but she gestured him away irritably and saw to the task herself with shaking hands.

The captain did not appear put off by the harsh words or gestures. 'De-infestation is tough,' he said gently. 'I know.'

'What do you know of it?' croaked Sarah.

The captain spread his hands, looking helpless. 'Simply this. I was captured on Korhal and turned against a Physics Lab close to Arcturus's headquarters. An invisible Ghost administered me the Nanotech serum. I came back to myself on the battlefield. I've spent the rest of the time here.'

'So what are you doing, specifically, in my room?'

'Like I say, you seem isolated. I've seen you walk around… You don't seem to have any friends.'

'What a surprise,' hissed Sarah bitterly. 'Once, I was the Queen of the Galaxy, Ms. Call the Shots. Now I can't connect the dots. In the meantime I became the greatest mass murderer in the field of human endeavour. Is it any wonder I have no friends?'

'You don't exactly make it easy for people to approach you. You keep your head down, never acknowledge anyone…'

'And why are you here? Sympathy for the woman so many called the devil? Some misbegotten altruism within your hardened soldier's heart?'

'You seemed so withdrawn… so bitter. No one should have to be like that. I thought someone needed to show you that the world wasn't as hard and cold as you imagine. We all make mistakes… especially those of us who were infested.' A shadow passed over the young man's face.

Sarah glared at him. 'Yeah, well, in my time I didn't consider it a mistake. In my hour of triumph I stood supreme in all the universe. I would still be there, except for that bastard Raynor. Right now… my life might as well be over.' She lay down again in the bed, hunched into herself and faced away from the marine captain. 'I think you'd better leave now.'

Duncan sighed. 'Try to alienate me if you must. But, I will be here for you if you need me.' He got up and went to the door. 'Goodbye, Sarah.'

She heard the door close behind him as he left.

Dagor Bragollach

Bob Callahan, president of Earth, sat at his desk and gibbered as he watched messages of horror scroll over the green computer screen he had read Admiral DuGalle's suicide note upon less than a month before.

ENCIRCLING AIR FORCES SMASHED BY DEVOURERS LED BY GLAURUNG

EUROPE OVERRUN BY LURKERS UNDER COMMAND OF GOTHMOG

PACIFIC RIM TAKEN BY SMAUG

GRYPHON AND PERSONAL COMMAND OF HUNTER KILLERS AND GUARDIANS HEADED NORTH FROM SUBJUGATED SOUTH AMERICA

Bob whimpered, gnawing his fingernails. I have to do something! I have to concentrate! he told himself. But what could he do? His forces had already been decimated before this invasion, and the new invaders had, predictably, gone through them like a knife through butter. What was the point of concentrating?

The urge to fiddle while Rome burned won out.

He pressed his intercom. 'Lenina, can you come in here please?' he said shakily.

Lenina entered noiselessly through her internal door, as prim, cool and elegant as ever. 'What would you like, sir?' she said, raising one feathery blonde eyebrow.

'Send me my women. All of them.'

'Sir, I am afraid to say that your women have already fled,' replied Lenina in neutral tones. 'The prospect of remaining her while the Oval Office was overrun with Zerg evidently did not appeal.'

'But they have to be here! I need relief!' Bob moaned. 'Lenina, I don't suppose you could…'

'Now you know that I don't stoop to that kind of thing, sir,' preened the young woman with arch disdain.

'Lenina, we're probably going to be infested in ten minutes.'

'Well… maybe just this once.'

Lenina got down on her hands and knees and crawled beneath Bob's desk. He closed his eyes. 'Oh yeah, that's it baby…' he breathed.

The doors to the Oval Office flew open and smashed against the walls to their sides with a shattering boom. Through the opening strode Gryphon, wings furled on her back, newly regenerated claws extended, burned by laser fire and cut and pierced by projectiles, but still triumphant. Elite Hunter-Killer Hydralisks slithered through the door after her, one after the other. She spied Callahan behind his desk.

'President of Earth!' she sang out. 'I am here to accept your unconditional surrender. I'm your new commander, you now are my prisoner. Hand over all trappings of power at once… uh… what's going on?'

Callahan's face had shown little awareness of any of this and just then adopted the expression of a Japanese gentleman sipping vinegar. A moment later Lenina emerged from beneath the desk, stricken with horror at the surrounding Hydralisks and the mutated Zerg leader. A volume of white liquid squirted from between her lips.

'What have you fucking been doing?' said Gryphon in disbelief.

'Uh…' said Callahan.

'Forget it. I don't even want to know.' A freshly-infested troupe of Marine slaves had now trouped into the room, holding weapons they now appeared to have little idea how to use. 'Take these two to the infestation chambers. I've seen enough.'

THE WHITE HAND

Raynor slouched on the command chair of the battle cruiser Hyperion, cloaked and hooded in his full Dark Templar regalia. Arranged closely behind him were Kazansky, Magellan and Beatrice, almost too close for comfort. Raynor was starting to suspect they were ready to pounce if he made any mistake or showed any sign of weakness whatsoever, and relieve him of command. Over my dead body, he silently promised himself.

'Report,' he snapped.

'All Earth forces have now ceased hostilities,' said an ensign tersely, gazing into a remote viewplate. 'They seem to have surrendered. Gryphon's personal command now hold Washington DC.'

'Crap,' muttered Raynor.

'We came here too late,' snapped Beatrice. The accusatory tone was obvious; Raynor scowled. The clear implication was that they had delayed too long on Haven while Raynor was preparing his surprise for Kerrigan. Since Raynor had not commented on the results to anyone, it could only be assumed that it had gone badly. Very, very badly, given his endemic foul mood. This only made those closest to him watch him all the more – and undo any foolish orders after he had gone.

'It means nothing. Gryphon's forces still outnumbered us,' snarled Raynor.

'That may be so, sir,' said Magellan deferentially, 'but our weapons were far in excess of theirs in potency, particularly the entropic cloaking and Yamato Cannons.'

'We can attack later,' grated the Ghost Templar.

'Too late,' growled Kazansky. 'Now that the Zerg have taken Earth, they will be able to fortify it with considerable rapidity, regenerate their troops, and convert a great many Infested Terrans. Under conditions like those, to take their planet we will require outnumbering forces of three to one against.'

Raynor frowned, and might have said something, but just then the ensign called out:

'Sir! An unknown fleet approaching from the Korprulu sector!'

'On screen!' Raynor barked. His rebellious entourage went quiet.

Before them appeared spaceships of strange design. Huge, ungainly rectangular vessels, bigger even than Carriers; spider-shaped lengthy vessels with what seemed to be command centres in front and numerous claw-like structures extending from either side; and tiny ships almost too small and fast to be seen, a multitude of them. Raynor went cold as he realised that they outnumbered Gryphon's and Earth's forces even when they had been at full strength – and far outnumbered his. And what was that with them…

… Terran Battlecruisers. Painted black. From design they looked to be the half-assed, outmoded attempts from Arcturus Mengsk's shipyards. But all insignia had been painted out.

'What the hell is this?' gasped Beatrice.

'What you are looking at, m'dear, is yet another force that's decided to enter an already overcrowded arena,' Raynor growled. 'And some dissident faction within the Terran Dominion has decided to ally with them. I wager, the Cabal of Ghosts, who singed my beard so long ago.'

'You don't have a beard, sir,' Magellan pointed out brilliantly.

'Never mind, Magellan,' said Raynor wearily.

Everyone on the bridge stared mutely as the unknown fleet advanced upon Earth, taking up what was clearly an attacking formation, the tiny ships already flitting on ahead to descend on the little blue planet like a cloud of destruction. 'Your orders, sir?' said the helmsman meekly.

Raynor sighed. 'We would be lost against this fleet. We sit back, stay cloaked, and watch the Battle of Earth once again.'

Raynor's advisors shuddered. But for once, they knew he was right.

NIRNAETH ARNOEDIAD

The attack came at a time of festival for the Protoss. A time when they were celebrating finally being left in peace by the Zerg (the fact that the Zerg had decamped for the far-away-from-here Terran Homeworld was a fact that while widely known, was ignored) and being able to heal the rift between the sundered kindreds. Kindreds that now, it seemed, could die together.

From far beyond the Korprulu sector boiled nightmarish air power, Infested Scouts, Carriers, Corsairs and Shuttles rubbed shoulders with Overlords, Mutalisks, Guardians and Devourers which had been grotesquely and by no means seamlessly welded to Protoss technology and plasma shielding. Landing, they spewed out more of the same; Zerg-Protoss Hybrids, Infested Dragoons, Ultralisks bearing the shells of Reavers and spewing Scarabs…

The combined kindreds of the Protoss knew for an instant that they could not be defeated. Fall back! sent Artanis and Zeratul desperately, themselves setting a fine example. Fall back to the Temple! Fall back for your lives!

The Protoss fled like the wind; the assembled nightmarish amalgams pursued them relentlessly, but always seemed just far enough behind that casualties were minimal. Moving as fast as they could, Artanis and Zeratul made their way to the top of the Temple. In each left three-fingered hand, was clutched a crystal. Before them burned an eternal blue flame at the centre of a weirdly twisted piece of Xel'Naga architecture.

Each paused a moment, turning around and looking at the multitudes of their people crowded around the Temple, looking up at them imploringly. At the very limits of the crowd, crouched the tides of darkness – unbelievably, merely standing. Waiting.

For what, they both wondered. As they observed this eerie sight Artanis and Zeratul realised that their worst fear was probably going to be realised, and the retribution of their race had come, but…

This is our last hope, observed Artanis.

If this fails, we can expect no mercy, responded Zeratul. And yet I fear this will be the ultimate joke for our foe.

We will do what we must, thought Artanis hopelessly.

Then so be it! and Zeratul plunged his crystal into the flame, pulling his hand back. The crystal hung there, emitting a high-pitched whine.

Artanis plunged deep his own crystal and reeled back. For a moment, the crystals hung together in the flame. Then, it flared blue, sputtered… and died.

Our worst fears have been realised, thought Zeratul.

Then all that remains to us is to die with honour, Artanis replied.

'I think not,' said a new voice.

Materialising before them on the top floor of the Temple was a figure wearing a long coat of beige. Samir Duran was smiling, wild eyed, and triumphant.

'You did not seriously think we would allow you to use our own technology against us?' grinned the enigmatic being. 'But of course; you feared this was your last hope. But fear not; you will not be destroyed here and now, just as we were not destroyed. Why do you think we did not destroy you when we had the chance?'

It was clearly a hologram, just as the High Templar might summon. However, little effort had been put into its creation; it could be clearly seen through to the wall behind. Neither Protoss bothered to attack.

The smile vanished. 'On behalf of the Xel'Naga, I demand the unconditional surrender of both your kindreds.'

We shall fight to the end! We shall never surrender! sent back Artanis defiantly.

Samir Duran stepped forward, mouth twisting in fury. 'I don't think you understand, Mr. Praetor Artanis. You will be kept alive whether you want it or not. There will be no "honourable" way out for the Protoss. There was no honourable way out for us. You may fight, if you wish. You will not be slain. We shall hew the limbs off your fighters until they stop struggling, and cling on with limbs even after they have been severed from their bodies.'

Artanis and Zeratul looked at each other helplessly.

Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees, thought Zeratul wearily.

'I think,' gloated Duran, 'that you will be dying on your knees. Slowly…

'Go down from our temple… and await your new Messiahs.'

ATHELAS

Sarah's world collapsed on Sunday morning, after Raynor's troops had lit out for Earth, taking such recovered personnel from the Centre as wished to enter the theatre of war once again. Sarah had not been asked, and she did not know who had gone, just that the psychic impressions around the area were now much fewer. In that hour such of the Infested Terrans who could still believe in a loving higher power were in the multi-denominational chapel, and the wards were largely deserted.

Kerrigan got up from her bed and walked unseeing towards the blank wall. In that moment, she knew that all hope of being able to relate to humanity once again, or to find acceptance amongst those she had conquered, was lost; and more, that she would never be able to live with the knowledge of her crimes. Her path was set; she detached the tubes from herself, with some pain and a few leaks of blood, before cloaking, opening the door and heading for the commissary.

With the skills of a Ghost it was quick and easy work to steal a razor, with which she returned to her room. With terrific, suddenly-remembered strength she barricaded the door with her bed, before kneeling down on the floor. She pushed up the sleeves of her hospital gown, and slashed at her arms until her strength, her will and the sharpness of the blade failed her.

Soon she had not the strength to remain kneeling, and collapsed face first upon the floor. Her last thoughts as darkness fell and her vision clouded were that she was swimming in blood, like a rat in a sewage flow; and then unconsciousness sent her below the level of any thought at all.

Thus might have died Sarah Kerrigan, one-time Ghost, one-time Queen of Blades, one-time ruler of the galaxy and scourge of the free peoples. But she had neglected to think to block the gap between the door and the floor; and through that gap, her river of blood flowed.

Past this torrent Duncan happened to walk; and with a frenzied yell, he ran to raise the alarm.

This yell brought Sarah back to a nightmare consciousness, of blinding pain in her arms and a crimson tide all she could see. 'Noooooo…' she whispered. 'Let me die.'

There was a crash above her. In her field of vision along the floor, she saw the grille over the ventilator shaft rattle to the floor, followed closely by a booted foot. Duncan leaned down towards her. 'Sarah!' he gasped.

'Leave me to die…' she croaked.

'I won't let that happen!' He reached down, cradling her in his arms. He was closely followed by Alexei Stukov, who eyed the stricken woman and shook his head gravely. Meanwhile, Duncan was pulling the laces out of his boots. He wrapped them around Sarah's mid-biceps, where the brachial artery comes to the surface, and used a pen to twist them tight with painful force. The blood flow from the perforated arms slowed and stopped. Realising that her suicide attempt had failed, Sarah collapsed in Duncan's lap and wept freely.

'Those wounds will take hours to stitch,' observed Stukov dispassionately.

'That may be so,' said Duncan grimly, 'but this time, Sarah will live. I shall see to that.'

Sarah continued to weep. But light-years away, watching the second Battle of Earth as the Last-stager forces shredded the remaining human and Zerg, Raynor through some entropic or psionic medium realised that Sarah's heart was turned away from him forever; and for all his power as the Ghost Templar and the leader of the last free people in the galaxy, a dark seed of evil was sown.

THE RUIN OF BELERIAND

Ruby Red was lolling triumphantly behind her recently-commandeered desk at the Oval Office when she received a telepathic message from one of her subordinates, delegated to maintain the Last-stager patrols in orbit around their new planet.

Yes? she responded. She smiled insolently at Gryphon, Orwell and Callahan, lined up against the wall, covered in chains that bound them in position. Orwell and Callahan had not had time to be infested before the Last-stager blitzkreig upon the planet, though whether this was preferable to capture, humiliation and being forced to watch the subjugation of their world was anybody's guess. Meanwhile, what amounted to a squad of six Last-stagers working in paired shifts (echoing, eerily, the Ghosts who were still controlling Arcturus) was clamping down on Gryphon's power and holding her like a fly in amber. The Zerg served new masters now.

Unknown fleet approaching from Korprulu sector, came the message. Strange design, huge numbers.

Ruby Red's expression showed nothing other than gleeful contempt to anyone else present, but her thoughts bespoke urgency. I shall meet you aboard the flagship at once, she sent back. This matter requires my personal intervention.

Ruby, clad in the all-encompassing silver armour which enabled her to move around in Earth's climate and gravity, rose imperiously to her feet. 'Mister Willard, you may command in my absence,' she sneered. 'I am adjourning to my flagship for a while to deal with more polite company.'

'With pleasure,' grinned Willard, the insult meaning little to him. Since the takedown by the Last-stagers, Earth society had abruptly changed to be for the benefit of a very few. At the top of the tree were the Last-stagers, whose word was law, who needed not their fantastic weapons technology when they could control or blast the mind of any normal human. Below them were Ghosts (originally from either side) whose psychic power had now been set up to be able to use the Zerg, wrenched from Kerrigan's command, as enforcers. Below them were normal humans, stripped of all civil or human rights whatsoever, the playthings of the Zerg and Ghosts.

Just as the Last-stagers had predicted, the Ghosts had gone on an orgy of rapine, murder, depravity and exploitation as soon as they had the chance. This led to quite frequent uprisings by the humans and pitched battle – of which the Last-stagers made it clear that their underlings had to deal with. Leading to wholesale slaughter of all parties except the conquering powers, who stayed well out of it. Not an ideal state of affairs for any ruler who wanted any kind of work or progress out of a conquered nation, but then the Last-stagers had never been interested in this…

Ruby Red headed for her Pod and flew up to her flagship without incident. The sky was filled with similar Last-stager craft, on occasion patrolling, but mostly gleefully watching the carnage that was erupting below on their supposedly ruled planet. However, no one passed without psychic interrogation.

Ruby headed through her ship's darkened tunnels, shedding her cumbersome exo-skeleton as she went, until she reached the bridge. 'Where is this fleet?' she snapped without preliminaries.

'Over there,' indicated a fellow, pointing at a scanner showing the region of space towards the Korprulu sector.

Ruby frowned at the screen. She had not seen enough of Zerg or Protoss technology to be able to identify individual parts, but she knew enough to know that these were grotesque hybrids, neither one thing nor another. 'I had the understanding that these two miscegenated races were enemies. Why would their ships be combined?'

'Don't know.' Close behind Ruby Red, a female Last-stager with purple hair was looking over her shoulder. However, the commander was too preoccupied to notice.

Perhaps you would be interested in finding out, a psychic voice of immense power rumbled in her head.

Who's there? What brings you to this sector? rapped Ruby Red, refusing to be rattled.

Perhaps you would consider meeting me on this planet's Moon, in the centre of the largest crater, rang back an amused, sardonic telepathic voice. There is much you might be interested in hearing.

The contact broke off. Ruby knew that her curiosity was far too large to deny.

The exoskeletons were just as suitable for the Moon as they were for Earth. Ruby duly landed a short distance from where instructed and made her way towards a lone figure she saw standing there. The gravity, she felt immediately, was much more agreeable than that of Earth.

Her eyes widened behind her faceplate though when she observed that the figure was a human wearing a beige coat – and no spacesuit. She wondered incredulously how it could survive – before deciding that the telepathic voice that had boomed in her head was clearly not that of a human either. She advanced until she was six feet from the sardonically grinning, wild-eyed figure.

She determined to start with the advantage. I am Ruby Red, of the people of the Last 32nd Stage and the Brotherhood of Metal, currently ruler of Earth. Who are you, and why have you asked me here?

The figure smiled in amusement. I am Samir Duran, mouthpiece of the Xel'Naga, who currently control Shakuras and the two kindreds of the Protoss.

I have asked you here to propose… an alliance.

An alliance? sent back Ruby, incorporating just the right level of skepticism into her voice. In truth she was immensely relieved. The fleet she had seen on the scanner, and could now see for real in impressive formation behind the stranger's head in space, looked more than a match for the Last-stager forces currently on Earth.

I believe we can be of mutual benefit to one another. I am particularly interested in trading technology. You have particular mastery, between yourselves and the mainstream humans, of fantastic weaponry including nuclear attack. We have considerable mastery – as you can see behind you – of genetics and combining biological and mechanical material. What say you?

Ruby Red did her best to control her expression so that it did not show that this was the best outcome that could have been hoped for. She had been covertly extending her psychic sensitivity, greater than any human's, over the figure during the conversation and was disturbed by what she had found. It was able to survive in the cold, airless environment because it was not really alive at all – it was more of the order of a form of flesh, animated by a mind of phenomenal psychic power. This might have been bad enough in itself, but hovering around the figure she could sense yet more minds, not embodied but of the same magnitude of potence, merely watching and listening. She was certain these beings, whatever they were, would not go down easily or quickly.

She betrayed none of this, merely stepping forward and gripping the figure's hand. Done, she sent.

Samir Duran giggled, wild-eyed. I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.