Chapter Four: Concurrent Matters

"A level of despair is reached, where people are willing to die to punish their tormentors."

-William Kammeraad-Campbell

The star's light had just hit the plains when Blake snapped awake in his chair in the office. An equivalent time on Earth would be six in the morning; however it was twelve o' clock on Braxis. It took him a second to realize where he was, and another to find what time it was. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers across his stubble chin and stood up while he straightened his uniform. He was not a decorated officer, and not many would call him an officer at all.

Blake stepped to the mirror and made sure the wrinkles he had secured in his coat overnight were not too bad, and then opened the holster for his sidearm. The gun was in the top drawer of his desk. It was black with a dark grey handle, and inscribed on the bottom was "Colonel Hardy Blake." He smiled before attaching it to his side.

His office was always very neat, something that was his own. Blake was a strange man, but most of the scientists liked him. Scientists, not guards. The men of science had not been on battlefields or even in any sort of basic training, and therefore knew no kind or real leadership which Blake most surely lacked. The guards and even Renaud recognized the absence of true military character. The size of Blake's figure made no difference of his capabilities.

Blake then left his office and decided to go for a stroll throughout the corridors to see who was up and about. At this moment, not many. Greck had prepared a breakfast, namely coffee, for the men and was cursing under his breath the entire time. Blake came in and snatched a cup while Greck was preoccupied with something else. He headed back towards the radio room where he had been the night before to see if Jarvis had come in and done anything yet. Jarvis was most likely awake; he was able to operate on little sleep.

MacFerran and Garrett were absent. So was Jarvis. Odd. Blake walked in and inspected the room, but found it devoid of life. The machinery was off, which was very dangerous. MacFerran should have known better than to turn off the radio. Unless, of course, it had broken down completely. A few moments later, MacFerran himself walked into the room. He gave a casually "hello" and proceeded to turn the radio equipment on.

It began to hum and buzz as Blake sipped his coffee, not asking why MacFerran had turned it off. Blake was not too interested in it, but maybe he should have been. There was no conversation between them whatsoever. The only thing was the occasional glance or smile. Then Garrett entered. He sat down at his own equipment and stared lazily at it. Blake sighed, took a sip, and left.

MacFerran put on his headphones and looked at Garrett.

"I really don't like him," said MacFerran. Garrett chuckled and nodded, for not only did he agree, but it was so blatantly true.

The radio man turned back to his job - which he would be doing for quite a long time - and started to turn various dials, seeing if he could find the station that gave him such a mysterious broadcast. He found none. However, there were a few fuzzy stations that were new to him. After a few moments one became a little clearer. They were most likely vessels of some sort that were entering the area. As of now, they were probably in high orbit, perhaps even a bit further away. The message was recorded. A beam of giving way to underlings below. Searching, even, for a sign of intelligent life left upon the snowy surface.

It was sound… becoming clearer as MacFerran listened: "This is the FCM, Third Division of the Former Colonial Militia… Repeat… This is the FCM, Third Division of the Former Colonial Militia… We will be entering the atmosphere of Braxis shortly… All Terran posts report in… Repeat… We will be entering the atmosphere of Braxis shortly… All Terran posts report in… This is the FCM," and with that, MacFerran hit a recording button, and the message was taken down upon a computer.

He then switched a few knobs, took hold of the microphone and spoke into it.

"PCA Band to FCM, come in FCM, over." He paused and waited for a response. Nothing. Once again he took to the board and made some adjustments. "PCA Band to FCM, Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion, come in FCM, over." Once again there was a pause, but then some cackling.

MacFerran turned and stared at the speakers eagerly. Some more crackling and such emerged before another voice was present, though it was different from the recording.

"This is FCM to PCA Band, we read you loud and clear," stated the voice. MacFerran smiled. Garrett was able to hear it, too, through the speakers.

"FCM, please state allegiance and purpose."

"PCA Band, this is FCM, Third Division. Our allegiance is of the FCM, Former Colonial Militia, previously under rule of the Sons of Korhal. Our purpose is to evade enemy freighters and spy vessels and seek shelter for the time being."

MacFerran thought for a moment before responding: "Please state the leader of this group, FCM." There was no answer except for the usual cackling. "FCM, please state your leader." The cackling ceased as there was no answer. "FCM, please report in, over… FCM, this is PCA Band, do you read me, over?"

The voice had been lost as MacFerran attempted desperately to restore it.

----

A few hours later, the lab was filled to the brim with scientists rushing about, running intelligence tests, aptitude tests, even waste tests of the new creature and his interaction with his comrade. As chart after chart of information flowed in, the strangeness grew. Durhkhan seemed in no way inclined to talk to his handicapped fellow. Phaira-kur was sitting in one place, moving his head about every so often.

Dr. Ames watched as he took notes with a simple piece of paper and pencil. Wald, however, was using every bit of technology available to find some variation in the results they had gotten before.

The only notable differences were a slight increase in mental activity of Phaira-kur and the extremely steady state of Durhkhan's mind. Either Phaira-kur was excited by all the people around him and his new companion or he was just abnormal today. Durhkhan was focusing on something, though. He was channeling his thoughts into one item, but that item was unknown.

Even after several hours had passed, the room still buzzed with an unbelievable strength, and MacFerran still desperately tried to contact the voice that represented the Former Colonial Militia.

The tests, as of all, showed the following:

The zealot Durhkhan, recognized by the computers as Test Subject Zeta-1318 (Z-18) and Phaira-kur as Test Subject Zeta-2376 (Z-76), was given a title of intelligence as normal. He exceeded no bound of the Protoss brain, nor did he dip below what was set as a standard. Though his IQ did not hit the line proportionally to the middle, he did not deviate far from it.

Trials showed that the lack of mental activity as well as physical activity was caused by his own being. Z-18 was contracting his psionic powers into one colossal beam of energy. Though the computers did not give that Z-18 was hoping that his channeled psionic energy was being charged to destroy his barrier, the scientists reasoned so.

Z-18, though showing a standard IQ, was compiling an astounding amount of energy. The energy was not concentrated within his skull, but rather pulsed throughout his body. Scientists had not seen a Protoss assemble such a large amount of energy. In fact, Wald reasoned that if enough of this psionic force was created, Z-18 would implode. Neither the scientists nor the computers were sure of where all this energy was planning to go, but if it were headed for the laser boundary, Wald and Blake were not certain it could withstand the force.

This psionic passion that throbbed in the limbs and chest of this beast was powerful enough to destroy a siege tank. Granted, the laser compound was stronger than a siege tank, but the power could be stronger than that expected. At first, the scientists pondered why the Protoss then could not defeat their enemies as easily as it seemed. They then figured that once thoroughly disturbed, the energy would start to die down. Also, it took a great deal of time to create such a powerful amass of vigor.

Z-76, however, was not as lively. He had close to zero a reading of psionic energy. His motions still showed no sign of a pattern, and the excitement he had shown before was gone. Unless Z-18 interacted with Z-76, Z-76 would show no leap in bustle.

The hours then slowed to a halt when Dr. Wald stood from his chair with his own notes of observations of both animal and machine. The room, upon acknowledging him, toned to silence.

"We have witnessed within these last hours the subjects of Z-18 and Z-76. Both have been interesting to watch, but our tests are still inconclusive. This is not to say we have not worked hard or that our work is in vain, but as long as there is no interface between the two zealots, we cannot accomplish anything new.

"Z-18 has been in brooding since his arrival. Whether or not he plans to escape I cannot say, but I have a feeling that the very thought bounces in the chambers of his mind. You can look at him – and go ahead! – You can look at him and see the thoughts portrayed on his complexion. Sure, it is unmoving, but the intent is there, if you believe in such a thing." He looked at Ames, who only smiled back.

"As an established mindset of this installation, I suggest that we place the mental restrictors on the test subject of Z-18," Wald continued. "We have seen him channeling his thoughts as one, and that this could prove to be dangerous. I know, I know it might impale him of certain aspects, but for our safety, I recommend it. Ames, what say you?"

Ames looked at Wald, put his clipboard on top of a computer, and stood up. The room stared at him, glancing between him and the alien.

"I'd have to agree that mental restrictors would be in our best interest. Z-18 has shown a disturbing amount of dormancy." Ames rubbed his eyes and looked into the cell. "But, we need to continue our study of Z-18's advancements of psionic levels. We've never seen anything like this before. We can't stop yet.

"But the line between studying and danger is thin. I cannot say what Z-18 will do."

Mumbling erupted as Ames sat. Wald gave a brief look of disbelief. He then realized that it was in order and that the studying needed to continue. Perhaps a break in his meditation could save the men from certain destruction. The scientists swayed different ways, and an agreement could not be made. Blake tried to settle the argument. He suggested that Durhkhan be placed in an alternate cell, and then the scientists rebelled that it would disturb Durhkhan's thinking process.

All the while, the astronomers Connant and Silas sat in the corner, watching the men bicker about.

"Blake, moving Z-18 would screw all of today's tests! I want to figure out what's going on before we screw it up!" shouted Ames.

"Calm down, Ames, I'm not saying that we have to do it, I just want everyone safe!" retorted Blake. Wald then interjected, as did others. Silas was too frustrated to listen to it anymore, and he left without another word.

"That creature can't be that dangerous!"

"The psionic energy is unpredictable!"

"Please!" shouted Connant. He caused the room to go silent. "It's obvious that Durhkhan poses a threat to us, he's smarter than us! Even if we destroyed his equipment he could find a way to cause us harm. It's not a matter of whether he escapes; it's a question of the actions that ensue. Look at him! Does he not appear evil? And that he does – and he does so that he should – give us chills." Connant walked towards the cell. "Your pet, the two of them, it'll be what we fear most. And Durhkhan, planning; looking past that laser-wall. That thing grew up on evil, adolesced slowly roasting alive the local equivalent of kittens, and amused itself through maturity on new and ingenious torture."

MacFerran entered tired and frustrated. He handed a paper to Blake. It contained the information on the FCM, the incoming entities. Blake patted MacFerran on the back and both exited to the radio room.

Wald and Ames, who had been best friends for years, were now at a huge disagreement, and neither wanted to see the other side. Wald looked at the cell. Connant was now staring in, into the eyes of the beast that withheld a tempest of all sorts. Ames saw it, too, that the eyes of the monster were not of this world.

"Can we agree," started Wald, "that two guards be on duty tonight? One inside this room and another out? It'll be safe for tonight. You can record whatever sort of information you want over the course of the dark, and tomorrow we can give him the mental restrictors."

Ames saw that there was no disagreeing to this. An entire night's worth of information was the best that he could get, maybe a few hours in the morning. It would be all right; surely Durhkhan would collect it again. He nodded, and no other scientist thought it well to oppose. Wald smiled, and so did Ames; another crisis averted. Wald walked over towards the door, where the schedule for guarding was posted.

"Who's on for tonight? Straatman – oh, Stratham. You and Newell tonight. Decide who is where, we'll bring you some dinner." Several men left and went to the dining hall where Greck had prepared yet another mediocre meal. "You'll do fine."

Stratham rolled his eyes and went to his locker to grab his rifle. Newell had to do the same. Durhkhan still did not change his focus. It was amazing how he was able to be undisturbed by his surroundings. Surreal, yet believable.

----

Blake listened to the transmission several times. MacFerran only looked at the commander and could clearly read that Blake had no idea what to do. The commander then frowned and looked to Garrett, who had practically passed out at his console.

"The Former Colonial Militia, huh?" asked Blake. "Sounds like a crock of shit. Why don't you contact the inner bases and alert them to these guys' presence?" MacFerran sighed and looked down. "What? I don't know what to tell you, MacFerran. If these guys mean business, then we could be in trouble. Thank God we're undeclared. Now, go radio those Sons of Korhal outposts!"

Blake then left, and MacFerran did nothing but ignore what his commander told him. These men, whoever they were, were on their way, and they might be friendly… they sounded friendly, but who could know? He tossed the microphone aside and spun around to the window, where he saw a star dance.

----

"Okay, Newell. I'll take the inside. You can stand out in the hall and answer all the questions that the scientists have. 'Are they all right?' 'Have you checked on them?' 'Are you sure they're all right?'" Stratham chuckled. "It'll get to you, Newell, trust me. I've been on duty for Phaira more times than you can imagine. Every time it's the same old deal."

"I know. I've been there, too, you know," Newell smiled as he leaned against the wall. Stratham nodded and then went inside the lab, closing the door behind him.

It was very dark; there were no windows in the lab. Strange, wasn't it? In a room where there would most likely be some disaster, where there would most likely be some sort of havoc that involved several men, there were no windows for escape. Stratham figured it would just be too cold out, even if you were on fire.

He flipped on the lights and noticed that Phaira-kur was drifting off to sleep as Durhkhan continued to stare straight ahead. Stratham was startled by it at first, but then realized it was ridiculous. He walked to the side of the laser-wall and looked inside. Nothing interesting happening.

Stratham took a few steps back and leaned himself against the wall, lowering his rifle. He sighed and turned his head towards the cell again and then back to his front.

"You amaze me, pal," started Stratham. "I mean, I've never seen anything concentrate so hard. For Christ's sake, it's like you're in some staring contest with the desk over there! I'd hate to break it to you, but it never blinks. And you don't seem to, either." Stratham slid down to the floor and sat.

"I mean, why don't you just do something? They're never going to let you out if you just sit there forever. Either do something or talk… or send mental messages, rather. Whatever it is you do… I don't know." Durhkhan kept his glare straight. Stratham turned to him.

"What happened there?" asked Stratham. "I heard Renaud telling everyone that the weather was really freaky out there towards the pole. Do you know what happened? Of course you do, but you won't say, right?" Stratham slid straight in front of him. "I've never heard of any weather like the type Renaud described. I know that it isn't possible. I know it." He slid closer. His voice was but a whisper.

"You did it, didn't you? Huh? You and your energy, whatever it's called. You did it. You centered your energy into one area and let it grow, just like you're doing now." He paused. "And you're thinking that if you can channel enough energy you can escape that prison… I don't know if you can, but I'm waiting for you to try… I'm waiting."

Stratham slid back towards the wall and chuckled. "But then again I still wonder how that entire phenomenon occurred."

I did it.

"Huh?"

And with that, an enormous blast ripped through the laser wall and burst through the cabinet and barrier across from Stratham. Stratham ducked and waited for the enormous firestorm to end, even when he noticed the blast was still going with no noise. Either he was deaf, or it was silent.

Durhkhan's feet hit the heated tile floor and looked to Stratham. Tonight was his night, the night of his escape.