There is a bit about Valerian in here that is a retcon from the previous chapter. I have removed it from there and placed it in this document. I had originally planned it the way it is now, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I never liked it, so I reverted it to my original concept of a dark-future Valerian.
Alarak watched from the top floor of a new observatory as a building in downtown Escalero, one of the few still standing, imploded and shook to the ground, disappearing into a pile of metal and plumes of dust. It was a controlled implosion, one of many meant to level the last of the human city to make way for a new, protoss one; dark and sleek, it would be a monument to the ingenuity and power of the Tal'darim. Alarak shifted his weight as he stood, waiting for what he was standing there to see—his new project come to life. The Tal'darim had made great strides scientifically and as a culture, and this new world would be an extension of that. But there was a dark side of the Tal'darim, darker than the stain of human blood that the city would triumphantly rise from. The Tal'darim were still addicted to terrazine, and it was inexorably interweaved in their culture. At one time, Alarak believed that terrazine purified their thoughts and magnified their power. Both are true, in a fashion… But the old anger returned when he thought of how Amon had used its addictive nature to bend his people to his will and instill in them a false sense of the numinous with his own godhood at the center. He knew better now. It was a resource like any other. A tool—nothing more. There is no doctrine. No "dark god." No "right" way to use it. It is an important part of our culture and must remain so. In moderation. My moderation. He chose this planet not only for its history but also its proximity to Jarban Minor, a terrazine-rich planet in Umojan space that was in striking distance.
Already the debris had been cleared. He watched as a swarm of black probes carried the rubble away. As they left, one stayed, a telltale spark of energy, visible even from his far away vantage point, leaving its array. This is what he was waiting for. The warp fissure the probe created extended upwards, further and further, taller than any of the surrounding buildings. Slowly, a translucent silhouette appeared, wavering in the sunlight. From where he watched, it stood between him and the sun. As it warped in, its dark form took shape, blocking the light and casting a shadow over the city. It was a spire, black as obsidian, with a crimson crystal at its center. Designed by Alarak himself, it was not just one spire but three, jagged and asymmetrical, separated at the bottom of the structure, but twisting together in a unified piece. To him, it signified himself, the Highlord, his ascendants, and the indominable spirit of the protoss, bound together, forged in the Tal'darim. There was no crystal at the top like other protoss buildings. Instead, it was in the middle. The Tal'darim strive for nothing. We are the pinnacle. We serve no god, no master. And at the bottom, where the spires separated and formed a tripod, a vent of terrazine emitted its jade-green essence, igniting into purple flame as it reached the crystal above. Terrazine will be tightly controlled now. Ritual and training use only. No "ascending to a higher plane" and that nonsense. At the top of the structure, in the highest reaching spire (symbolic, of course, of himself), was a lavish personal apartment, from which he planned to rule.
And I will rule. The humans will not take this planet from me. I would destroy it rather than let that happen. He thought of Stukov and hate boiled in him. Stukov had made a fool out of him, but even worse, Stukov was right. He knew the UED were what the humans in the Koprulu sector called fascists—a moniker so odious that even the Terran Dominion could not be called it even at the height of its tyranny. It was, for them, the worst kind of government the humans could produce. This was something that Alarak understood intellectually but could not fathom existing in reality. A government is neither good nor bad. It is what it needs to be for the culture it supports. I rule the Tal'darim ruthlessly. That is what they expect and what the Tal'darim demand. The Nerazim and the Khalai… have different ideas of what it is to rule. I do not understand Earth and its government. Culling your own people indiscriminately… exiling people with advantageous mutations… not allowing them to evolve… that creates weakness. A weakness that can be exploited. And because he understood their ideology, he knew that any treaty he signed with them would be worthless. If they did not believe him to be a person, Alarak reasoned, they would not see the agreement as valid. But I will be ready for their deception. He eyed his handiwork, the spire. It was exact to his specifications to the micron.
Alarak could sense Ji'nara's presence at the door before she spoke. She was light on her feet, but her thoughts were loud—and now often pointedly unguarded. Alarak turned to glower at her over her shoulder. She was looking beyond him at the spire.
"Hm, it's almost as tall as your ego, Highlord." Alarak's eyes narrowed into a scowl as she walked towards him and stood next to him. "I'm surprised you wanted your apartment at the top… I mean, after what happened with Stukov…"
Years ago, Alarak would have killed her for her impertinence. It would have meant she was plumbing his weaknesses, taunting him before dragging him off to kill him during Rak'shir. But with the mortal part of the ritual removed, her barbs were toothless. They were merely words passed between warriors that had worked together too long. Like an old, married couple that had long since lost the joy of being together and found pleasure now only in verbal jousting.
"Well done, Ji'nara. Did that jab just come to you, or did you spend all morning preparing it? I know you work so hard to make your witticisms appear as though they come from actual wit."
"As if you would know wit if you heard it," Ji'nara said quickly, momentarily forgetting herself, "… Highlord."
Alarak gave her a hard look, and he could feel Ji'nara sweating a little, her mind flitting with worry. He liked that he could still rattle her with a look, no matter what she said to him. He turned away, looking back outside.
"Speaking of a lack of wit… I assume you're here to escort me to the transmat for my meeting with the UED delegation?"
"Yes, Highlord."
Alarak sighed.
"Very well."
They exited the room together into the wide hallway beyond. Everything, despite the Tal'darim's penchant for dark colors, seemed new and polished—because it was. The building itself was only hours old. Its hallways were empty; Alarak had not assigned many workers here yet; he wanted solitude before his own living quarters had been built. He would inspect them later.
"Do you have reservations about our human allies?" Ji'nara said suddenly.
"Do you not, Ji'nara?" Alarak said, his voice full of scorn.
"Well, of course," Ji'nara said, stammering slightly, "they are human. And their leader does not seem particularly… clever. Though with humans I daresay that's the norm…"
Alarak was silent for a few moments.
"We have met clever humans, Ji'nara. Not acknowledging that is foolish. But with Reeves… 'not clever' is an understatement."
Ji'nara took the criticism and his agreement in stride, saying nothing as they reached the transmat room. As he stood ready for transmat, he looked at her. Protoss only subtly aged, but he could see that she seemed older. The skin around her eyes had started to mottle and darken slightly in a way that signified maturity. Their relationship had been strained before the End War; it was hard to like someone whom you would eventually have to face in mortal combat. But after some initial missteps and the occasional episode of speaking out of turn, Ji'nara had shown herself to be an excellent warrior and competent second. And after Rak'shir had been modified, Ji'nara had begun to trust him. She was still maturing into her role—her slip with Stukov about Tyrador a symptom of this—but someday, he felt, she would make a good successor.
When that far off day should come. If I don't one day tire of her insolence and crush her crest beneath my heel.
Alarak nodded to Ji'nara. She turned from him and tapped her claw on a display on the wall.
"Kuznetsov Tower, this is First Ascendent Ji'nara. Highlord Alarak is ready for transport."
"First Ascendent, this is Tower. Admiral Reeves is ready to receive you. I will send you the coordinates."
Ji'nara she plugged the coordinates into the console and verified that they corresponded with the Kuznetsov. She did not trust the Directorate not to give her coordinates for open space and Alarak had come to rely on her instinctive mistrust that was even greater than his own.
"Coordinates verified. Ready, Highlord?"
Alarak sighed heavily with annoyance and nodded.
"Initiating transport."
Ji'nara tapped again on the display. The room fell away, replaced by a conference room on the Kuznetsov. It was not one that he had been in before. He wondered if the one they had met in initially—the one with the large viewport window onto space—had been taken off in the minefield explosion. This one was almost identical but without the windows. Instead, it had a glass wall that overlooked a portion of the immense carrier's engine works. But this time Reeves was not alone. Beside him were three humans he had never met, standing on the other side of the table. Conspicuously, none of them were standing very close to him. They are afraid of him—or they feel contempt for him as Stukov did. Two women, one pale, thin, and showing human signs of advanced age, the other small, rounded, and dark, were on one side of Reeves. He felt curiosity from both of them, but only the small one showed it, her eyes wide and her mouth open slightly. Neither of them, he realized, had seen a protoss in the flesh. On the other side of Reeves was a man, smaller but stouter than Reeves, wearing what Alarak assumed was the UED's version of a ghost uniform. Unsurprisingly, he could not prod his mind. His expression was similarly inscrutable.
"Highlord Alarak, your punctuality is greatly appreciated."
"Punctuality? Is that all that you appreciate, Admiral Reeves?" Alarak asked, bemused at the odd statement, not hiding his malice and loathing.
"Of course not, you are a significant ally in this conflict" Reeves said, not exactly trying to placate Alarak, but not irritating him further either. The comment had clearly put Reeves off balance, and that had been the point. "Speaking of which, allow me to introduce… my advisors: Chief Engineer Aditi Ramachandran, my technical advisor; Master Sargeant Ye-Jun Shin—you go by Eugene, right?"
"Shin is fine," the other man muttered, his eyes briefly flitting upwards in a look of exasperation. Reeves continued, seeming not to notice or care.
"Shin advises me on all covert ops, and Vice Admiral Christine Curchack, my tactical advisor. They will be assisting me in planning the deployment of the fleet here in the Koprulu sector."
Alarak laughed derisively.
"Did you have to find three people to replace Stukov? Was he that exceptional among your people? If he was, I'm not impressed."
Reeves was rattled again by what Alarak said, this time more so. Until this point, Alarak had demurred to Reeves's demands but in an aloof, noncommittal way. In truth, Alarak realized, a lot of that had been due to Stukov's presence. If Reeves could hold Stukov, he thought Reeves a formidable man. But now he saw the reality: Stukov had been Reeves' beast of burden, independently devising and implementing his strategies. Reeves had no substance in and of himself. He was good at scaring people and at propaganda. Alarak's observations were underlined by the furtive look Curchack and Shin exchanged behind Reeves's back. The small one, Ramachandran, seemed unaware of either's misgivings, but her emotion towards Alarak changed from one of awe to one of fright.
"Alarak, I'm going to try to not take that personally given that allies would hopefully not want to purposefully insult one another." Despite what he said, Alarak watched his cheeks flush, a reaction he knew to either be born of rage or embarrassment.
"Oh, yes, hopefully," Alarak said, barely hiding the mirth in his voice. "But go on. Let me hear what you've go in store for Korhal."
Reeves stared him down, but shortly his anger abated. He motioned for Everyone to sit. Alarak perched uncomfortably in a human chair as the four humans across the table from him settled into theirs. Reeves tapped on the console embedded in the table and a small holoemitter seated in the middle of it came to life.
"Admiral Curchack, if you please."
The older woman stood, waving her hand near the holoemitter. A starchart, one he recognized but could not place, expanded quickly to fill the three-dimensional space.
"I think we can all agree that an invasion of Korhal would not exactly be a surprise—as Tyrador was not," the woman's voice was reedy and unpleasant, Alarak thought. She is much past her prime. This faction of humanity… Despite their violence and aggression, they are weakened by their beliefs and indiscriminate warring. He had a hard time seeing where Stukov had fit in with these people. But, he realized, if the zerg hadn't taken him, Stukov would be as old and feeble as the woman who now stood across from him. "We can also reasonably assume that Stukov has given them information about our troop movements. It is now imperative that we change the trajectory of our attack."
"And what is that trajectory, Admiral?" Alarak asked, bemused.
"First we use the technology that Chief Ramachandran has developed to feign fleet muster at the Dalarian Shipyards to make our enemies believe we are continuing our movement towards Korhal," she said, her voice gaining strength, "But instead," she continued, her eyes clearing and sharpening,
"we will advance on Umoja."
By the time Horner had messaged Valerian, Nova was already onboard and the Oppenheimer was spinning up to FTL. Valerian hesitated but ignored his hail. He had plausible deniability as to never having received it. FTL makes communication… unreliable. And he needed time to consider his response. What he had set into motion—doubt—was coming to fruition. He was by birth Umojan, but his father had ruled the Terran Republic. What the Republic lacked in culture and technology, it made up for in territory, influence, infrastructure, and sheer size. The Umojan Protectorate was locked in, territory-wise, by its neighbors. It would never expand, and it would never be able to overcome either the Kel-Morian Combine or the Terran Republic—and it would never try. The Umojan Protectorate was not aggressive. It has made itself politically insignificant. Its absorption by the Terran Republic or the Directorate is inevitable. My experiment in destabilizing their navy looks to have been successful. Hopefully, Oyaleni will oust Marín as Fleet Admiral and promote Mullenix. I've seen the man's file. He's mostly been in command of a desk; he will be easy to manipulate—not like Marín. He had not expected to find someone as can-do as Marín in command of an Umojan fleet. Valerian felt a twinge of regret. His mother was Umojan and an independent woman as well. And he had liked Marín, even if she had been obviously repulsed by him. But not by Stukov, he thought darkly, and there's another reason she should not lead. Valerian was still disappointed that Stukov was alive and that the mission to assassinate him had outed one of his attempts to manipulate the situation behind the scenes. But only that one—and the help I had in pulling it off was never uncovered. But my primary goal was not to harm Marín—just to cause a rift. If the Umojans are left without strong leadership, the Directorate will have an easier time conquering their combined forces. And if the Terran Republic somehow deters the UED, they could easily topple the Umojans—Horner won't make a move, but I'm sure I can find someone who would. Valerian frowned as he realized Stukov would be a random element in this. He could not predict how he would react to the Directorate assuming control or the Terran Republic overthrowing Umoja, especially if Valerian was involved. His meddling could be costly—just as it had been when Stukov sided against him by backing Marín. He must be removed from the equation before the war ends. But I will wait… The problem may solve itself. Death, as in any war, was all around them.
The Oppenheimer arrived at the Dalarian Shipyards, Valerian's fleet keeping just out of their scanning distance.
"Adjutant, begin silent running mode, please."
The lights on the bridge dimmed, as did the grid on the war table. The constant hum of the engines stopped, as did the rushing white noise of the fans that circulated the recycled air aboard the ship. As he watched, Nova and her covert ops crew slowly fanned out towards the shipyards. All their ships had cloaking technology, but the Moebius fleet did not and so they had to keep their distance. I researched cloaking for battlecruisers decades ago, but at the time it was not feasible. The power transfer was too costly and inefficient, so much so that they couldn't fire or maneuver while cloaked. Silent running was more effective, and it didn't leave them sitting ducks. But now… perhaps after this war I will look into it again. Whoever emerges victorious will want to immediately gain an advantage and keep their power… Valerian was a survivor. His father had pressed upon him the tenets of being a Machiavellian leader. Be the lion and the fox, he thought. His father was good at being both. But in the beginning he was not. He tended towards the lion as the ruler of the Terran Dominion, and that's what people believed he was. But everyone knew my father. They knew he would do what was good for the Dominion, and that if they crossed him, they would face the consequences. Granted, he never actually knew what was "good" for the Dominion—just what was good for him. When Valerian ruled, people tried to take advantage of him because of his youth—and his seeming naivete. They never saw the fox underneath—And when they did, he thought, it surprised them. Now, without his position of authority, I am always the fox. I must go to burrow and ally myself with whoever is strongest—and become the lion again. For now… I wait—and watch.
He knew Nova would not be in position for a few minutes. He sat down in the large, ornate Louis XIV-style chair and poured himself a cup of tea from the bone china teaset that sat on the small, matching dainty table beside him. From his chair on the bridge, he looked out of the large viewport onto the stars. As long as he had lived, he never tired of looking out onto the galaxy.
There are so many stars… so many planets… He lamented that the human race fought over only a tiny fraction of them.
"CEO Valerian, Directorate ships approaching," the Oppenheimer's adjutant announced. Valerian sat bolt upright and forward in his chair. Calmly, he placed his teacup and saucer back on the table.
"On what vector? The shipyards or our position?"
"Directorate ships approaching Dalarian Shipyards from…" the Adjutant rattled off a string of coordinates that were meaningless to him. He got up swiftly and darted back to the war table in time to see the darkness of the grid light up with hundreds of enemy battlecruisers.
But no carriers… at least there's that…
Valerian couldn't contact Nova without giving away both of their positions. I hope she knows they're there.
He was alone, and for now they didn't see him or his fleet. There were quite a few of them, and there were Terran Republic ships sitting in drydock that could be used either for or against them. Valerian paced around the war table, looking at the potential battlefield before him. Surrounding him was near silence, the soft purr of the bridge's electronics the only sound. He picked a datapad up off the war table. He bobbled it slightly, and the contact clicked loudly against its neosteel frame. With a few taps, Valerian began altering their plan of attack based on the increased number of ships protecting the shipyard. But then he stopped. Perhaps now is the time to make my move. He looked at the fleet's positioning. One was clearly the flagship, positioned behind the other vessels and on a higher vector of approach.
"Adjutant, what is the registry of vessel three-four-eight?"
The adjutant ran a code cracker on it to decrypt its registry code.
"The Alexander II"
Of course it is.
"Adjutant, hail the Alexander II"
Ahlberg's hands were shaking as he loaded his service pistol—his real one, the one he kept in the armory for emergencies—with live ammo. He dropped two of the bullets. They clinked loudly on the metallic floor as they rolled away from him. Ahlberg didn't try to find them. It was dark in the aft armory, the only illumination the shaky light from Barre's plasma soldering iron a few feet away as he worked on a way to communicate ship-to-ship. There had been a parlay between him and Oyaleni over a delivered comm device supplied by the mutineers, but they had come to no agreement. Oyaleni wanted them to acknowledge both her and Mullenix's authority and allow them to restore power so they could capture Marín and leave with her to prosecute her for treason. And they would not guarantee her safety. He would not agree to those terms. And so the real conflict began. Oyaleni's troops had already killed eight of his men and seized control of the main computer core and the lift shafts to the upper decks, cutting them off from the bridge. Worse, they had not heard from Marín. Her datapad was still on and connected to his, but his messages were unread. Marín was likely still unconscious lying on the floor of her office. Getting control of the lifts and the bridge were their first priorities despite the increasingly dire life support situation. And It would only be a matter of time before they found a way to force their way into her office. They needed outside help, and they needed it now. Their allies in the fleet were helpless. Any movement from them would mean the retaliation of the other mutineer ships and would start an all-out firefight. Even if we lose here, Ahlberg thought, I'm not going to risk all their lives.
He had assured his wife, not knowing what awaited him when they disembarked, that this was most likely a one-day war. After the war with the xel'naga and the peace afterwards, he thought he would be safe until he retired—routine patrol missions ad nauseum. He and his wife had a daughter. She was two years old. When he got his emergency orders, he downplayed their severity and had continued to do so, not having the heart to tell her how bad it actually was. I'll have to tell her when—or if—the Directorate aims for Umoja, or sooner if… He hadn't told her of the inner strife that was happening within the Core and Edge fleets and didn't want to contemplate the worst that could happen now. Of all the ways that Ahlberg thought he would die, it was not on his own ship of oxygen deprivation, betrayed by his own navy. He couldn't even think about his daughter.
Ahlberg was interrupted by a loud electric pop and a string of curses from Barre. It was suddenly dark in the compartment. Ahlberg looked over to Barre as he began soldering again. Barre, who usually took nothing seriously, looked uncharacteristically grim. Stretched out before him on a dark computer console were the three shortwave radios he was trying to wire into a subspace antennae. His demeanor now was disconcerting for Ahlberg; he knew that Barre must have thought what he was doing was a longshot. But Barre continued to try. They knew they had allies, or they would have been blasted out of the sky. And Mullenix would not let down the jamming even to talk to them.
"How much longer do you think?"
"Will you stop asking me that, please?"
"I haven't been!"
"You asked twenty minutes ago. My answer is the same: I'm working on it."
Ahlberg sat back against the console and chuckled. He was as surly as always. That's a good sign, I guess. Barre pulled a pair of goggles down over his face. He turned to Ahlberg.
"Don't look at the light. It will hurt your eyes."
Ahlberg looked away and Barre began soldering again.
"Do you think that's going to work?" Ahlberg said. Barre stopped, slapping his palm against the terminal as he turned to look at him.
"No, I'm just doing it as an art project."
"Well, sorry."
Barre sighed.
"Yes, I think so… Maybe not. We'll see, I guess."
They sat in silence broken only by the noise of the soldering iron, Ahlberg with his gun in his lap, the light from Barre's soldering gun intermittently illuminating the room. Between Barre's bursts of activity, he could hear the officers outside conversing with each other lowly, clearly frightened, talking about people they knew on other ships, wondering if they were on the same side now. Ahlberg pondered this himself. He tried to remember what ships were from Core Fleet and which were from Edge Fleet that had accompanied them. He had a rough estimate, but didn't know for sure. They, at least, would be on their side. I hope… and there are most likely some in Edge Fleet that are not interested in following Mullenix or Oyaleni.
As if reading his mind—they had served together a long time—Barre spoke up.
"Who do you think is on our side?"
"I'm sure everyone in Core Fleet."
"No one from Edge Fleet?
"I don't know. Maybe?"
"Well, right now, the whole of Edge Fleet could suck my dick and balls and it would still not make up for what they've done."
"Not even if it was Mullenix?" Ahlberg said. Barre had always had a thing for Mullenix, which Ahlberg had teased him mercilessly about. He was an older man with slate-grey hair and chiseled features. He had one of the old-style battlecruiser commander bionic interfaces in his right eye, making one of his eyes an unsettling glowing red, a stark contrast to his other eye which was a clear grey. He was almost completely white in his Umojan uniform, looking like some sort of space-born jack frost. Barre has always been into weird. Ahlberg wondered fleetingly what he thought of Stukov.
"Not even that would make me happy now," Barre said of Mullenix.
He continued to solder and then stopped, taking off his goggles and examining his handiwork. Reaching around it, he picked up a small powercell and connected two leads to it. Inspecting it again and then seemingly satisfied, he threw the switch on the cell. The room was immediately filled with a loud hiss—the background noise of space.
"Does that mean it's working?" Ahlberg said, picking himself up heavily from the floor.
"Yes? Maybe?"
"Well, see what you can pick up…"
"What did you think I was going to do?" Barre said testily.
Pulling out a datapad he had partially deconstructed and wired directly into the radio, he began scanning up and down the subspace frequency spectrum. He heard a weird warbling sound on one frequency but kept going.
"What was that?"
"Pulsar. More background radiation."
"But the nearest pulsar is at least thirty lightyears from here. The signal wouldn't be that strong."
Barre paused, thinking, then began cycling back to the "pulsar." As he listened to it, he analyzed the signal with his datapad.
"You're right. It has a data structure, but it's empty. It's like it's an encrypted signal with… nothing."
"Send something back," Ahlberg said, hurrying over to him, "see if it answers!"
"I'm going to just send back a blast. I don't want them to know it's us if it's someone from Edge Fleet." Barre sent the transmission. Neither of them breathed as they waited, hovering close over the hastily constructed pile of wires and coils.
"This is the Aleksander. Who is broadcasting?" said a familiar low, rumbling voice. It was Stukov. Both Ahlberg and Barre exclaimed inarticulately in surprise and relief.
"Call him back!" Ahlberg said quickly, "Call him back!"
"It must be a Directorate frequency," Barre reasoned as he hurriedly dialed the frequency into his jury-rigged datapad. "They use very elaborate encryptions and frequencies outside the normal band—frequencies that use too much power or are not programmed for a standard radio setup."
"Well, thankfully we don't have a 'standard radio setup.'"
"Admiral Stukov, this is Lt. Barre and Commander Ahlberg of the Uhuru. We're pleasantly surprised to hear from you. Was your mission a success? Does the fleet know where you are?"
"We have subdued Grellna and her brood. But I'm sure Oyaleni believes us dead since she abandoned us… What is going on up there?"
"Oyaleni has begun a mutiny. We've been overrun and we have no power…"
"Is my son safe? Let me speak to Admiral Marín."
"That's… part of the problem. Oyaleni has taken her hostage…"
"What?" Stukov said slowly, as if it were so unfathomable that it took time for him to believe it. In the background, he could hear Vermaak's low voice letting out a slow, steady stream of angry-sounding words that were unintelligible. "Hostage? How?
"Oyaleni feigned meeting with her and pulled a stun pistol… She's trapped in her office…" They both heard a loud bang from the other side of the comm. It sounded to Ahlberg like Stukov had slammed his fist down on his war table. He could hear Vermaak speaking angrily again in the background. "And as for your son, I haven't heard anything. No one has been in the cell blocks. They're probably locked in. I'm sure if Oyaleni's forces had captured him, they would have tried to make a bargain by now."
"What is your status?"
Ahlberg bluntly stated their situation—that they were pinned down, that they hadn't heard from Marín, and that they were running out of oxygen. Stukov listened patiently. Ahlberg could hear Vermaak in the background, commenting on what he was saying to Stukov.
"That… complicates things. We were preparing an ambush…"
"If you ambushed the fleet now, Oyaleni would use her capture of Marín against us," Ahlberg said.
"Oyaleni's violence is… disturbing. Do you think she would kill Marín if it came down to it? To end the conflict and force her candidate… What was his name?"
"Mullenix."
"Yes, Mullenix, into power?"
"I don't know… They're using live ammunition on us now, so anything's possible."
There were a few moments where he could hear Vermaak and Stukov discussing something.
"We will bring forces aboard to help you. But we will need a distraction—and someone to open the hangar…"
"Oyaleni's troops are occupying the starboard hangar. But there have been reports that the port one is open…"
"Open? Why?"
"We don't know."
Stukov and Vermaak conferred quietly again, but Vermaak reacted with hostility to something that Stukov had said and it became an argument. Suddenly, the argument stopped.
"We'll come aboard the port hangar in thirty minutes time. You have that long to think of a distraction. Vermaak will come to assist you, and I will try to get to the bridge. Vermaak does not have confidence in my success, but someone has to try."
"Godspeed, both of you. We'll think of something."
Stukov cut the comm.
"We will think of something, right?" Ahlberg said uncertainly. Barre avoided his gaze.
Horner took a deep breath as he watched several chevrons appear on the grid above the Hyperion's war table. He had been watching the standoff between the Liberté and Edge Fleet against Calvino and Core Fleet.
There's Mira… Immediately, the adjutant announced that Mira Han was hailing him. He sighed and answered.
''Matthew, Liebchen, so good to see you. But so sad that you've moved on so quickly. Who's that floozie that you were with when I called?"
Horner's head throbbed when he heard Mira Han's voice and saw her bemused face appear over the war table. I always forget what dealing with her is like…
"One, we never had a relationship for me to move on from. Two, it's been five years. And three, don't talk about Nova like that."
"Nova? What kind of name is that?" she said chidingly. "Is she some exotic dancer? Didn't think you were the type."
Horner rubbed his temples.
"Mira, can we please get down to business?"
"Always business, business…" Han said with a mock sigh. "I thought you called me to kick around the UED on Tarsonis? Now I'm here and your people fighting each other. What's going on? Tell me."
"My people aren't fighting anyone. Our allies are. Which makes you a welcome sight for once, Mira."
"Aw, Matthew. That was almost a compliment. Thank you. So, who are we blowing up?"
"Hopefully no one. But your assessment of our options in reining them in would be appreciated."
Horner watched as she reached behind her to call up her own holographic interface. As she studied the ships squaring off against each other, she paused at the Beynac automated defense platform, delineated by a large blue dot. She plucked at it with her hand and a detailed schematic filled the display, rotating peacefully in front of her. Horner wondered what she was thinking, but there was no way to know. She was wildly unpredictable, and it was one of her strengths. She turned to him with a sly smirk.
"Mm, that's quite some firepower you're sitting on, Matthew. State-of-the-art Umojan technology. Self-contained, automated, most likely armed with railgun arrays and ion cannons…" she zoomed in on the display, "…and antimatter torpedoes? Drone interceptors? The Umojans must like it rough."
"Mira…"
But she was also easily distracted and prone to making glib or inappropriate statements about her work or clients. That's definitely not a strength.
"Oh, don't scold me, Matthew. I'm getting to the business!" She backed out of the schematic and poured over the map again. "Fighting each other before an attack… How idiotic. Who started this mess? I can't tell who is naughty and who is nice. Can you send me a naughty list?"
Horner hesitated. It would be a breach in security and a violation of trust between the two powers to send any information on the Umojan fleet. But right now I'd say all trust is out the airlock…
"Adjutant, send the registration numbers and crew manifests of all present Edge Fleet vessels to Mira Han."
"Warning: classified information transmission to unverified recipient. Proceed with transmission?" Horner hesitated again.
"Yes."
"Handprint verification required."
A broad smile crossed Han's face.
"Look at Admiral Bossy-pants-good-boy-President breaking the rules."
Horner frowned at her as he put his bare hand on the war table to record his handprint. I hope I don't regret this, he thought. Though he'd known her for some time and knew her to keep her word, she also had a way of being literal or fanciful in her interpretation of a deal when it suited her. This wouldn't be the first time I've been bitten in the ass by something unexpected this week.
"There's your naughty list. Now, what do you think?"
Han's smile waned.
"Umojans on both sides? What are they fighting over?"
"Who should lead the combined fleet. There's a clear answer, but the Edge Fleet—the 'naughty ones'—refuse to see it."
"Well, then it sounds like they need a good spanking…" She said to him, feigning a conspiratorial tone.
"Mira…"
"I get it, I get it. You don't want me to blow them out of the sky. I will just scare them a little," she said, rolling her eyes and waving dismissively.
"How, Mira?"
"You know how much I like an automated defense system…"
"The Beynac? I'm not giving you access."
"Matthew, Matthew… You underestimate me. You don't have to give me anything. When a girl knows what she wants, she takes it. You know that."
Now it was Horner's turn to roll his eyes.
I shouldn't have gotten up this morning.
The Aleksander hugged close to the planet, wading through its turbulent upper atmosphere. From it, Stukov's lone shuttle wound its way up and towards the Uhuru. Onboard, Stukov charted an arcing course, making sure to keep in the Uhuru's shadow. In the navigator's chair, Vermaak sat uncomfortably, barely able to stay in his seat due to his CMC. In the hold were eight marines—men that Vermaak trusted and were all from the Uhuru—to help break the mutineers' chokehold there.
"Once we get onboard," Vermaak said. "We're going straight for the armory. We need to get those men out."
"I still think we should work on getting power restored. It won't be long before the crew suffocates…"
"We don't have anyone to fix it, and I'm not sure we could find anyone quick," Vermaak said quietly. "Besides, if the power came on, the lifts would start working, and they'd be able to get at Marín."
Stukov sighed.
"This is… I don't think it could be fucking worse."
"You're telling me. I don't know how this has happened. Everyone seemed to get along just fine before the fleets merged. Dunno what it was."
"Valerian. That's what it was."
Vermaak went silent for a moment. He sighed.
"Yeah, I see that now."
Stukov thought his reaction was odd. Surely he realized the man was a snake. But as much as Marin had instinctively mistrusted him—and so seemingly had Oyaleni—he was charismatic and persuasive. Perhaps they have found common ground. Stukov frowned as he realized it may have been a distrust of him. As they approached, the starboard hangar opened, and a squad of liberators tumbled out, propelled by their engines but also explosive decompression. A few helpless marines in CMCs cartwheeled out as well.
"They must have made a push for the starboard hangar. Not to run them off, but to get some ships out."
"Let's hope that's enough of a distraction."
Stukov piloted the shuttle into the port hangar as ships launched from the Core Fleet ships. They are outmatched, but if they can keep them busy for a few minutes…
The shuttle set down.
"My men and I are going straight to Barre and Ahlberg. Once we get them mobile and free up some of the crew, we're going to advance to the computer core."
"So you told me. Very direct. No surprises."
"I don't like surprises. So, you should probably tell me—now—how you're gonna get to the bridge."
Stukov didn't answer. In truth, he didn't know. He just knew he would get there if he had to kill every Edge Fleet soldier he met on his way.
"Look Stukov, I don't know what you're thinking, but killing a bunch of Umojans with your… infestation… or your bare hands… Is not going to make you any more popular."
"I promised I would not bring infestation here," Stukov said, annoyed, "and I intend to keep that promise. Beyond that, how I fight is my business."
"Hmph. Have it your way then. But I'm not hauling your carcass out of the fire when you get overrun. These men are going to be tougher than a bunch of zerglings," Vermaak said, referring to Stukov's recent debacle on the planet's surface, "and more lethal than an ultralisk in this tight of quarters. You better think up a plan if you don't got one." Stukov frowned, knowing he was right, but was at a loss. Vermaak snapped his visor down, and Stukov opened the shuttle's door from his panel. The door opened with a dull hiss and then a rush of noise as the air in the cabin bled out into space in the unpressurized bay. Stukov watched as the marines trundled noiselessly out into the vacuum.
Vermaak said something to him that he couldn't hear. He gestured angrily at Stukov, pointing to where his ear would be outside his CMC, signaling that he needed a comm. Stukov gestured back with his mouth open, indicating air coming out.
It doesn't matter if I have a comm, Vermaak. If there's no air, I can't speak into it.
What the fuck did I tell you about speaking to me like this?
Vermaak stomped silently over to the cabinets in Stukov's shuttle, opening each one. He pulled out an environmental suit, but it was molded and ripped. He threw it down.
A good idea, but you're not going to find anything undamaged in here.
Vermaak trudged out of the shuttle, smacking the side of the door angrily as he walked out. Stukov sighed, letting the air that remained in his lungs out, and followed him. By the time he was out, Vermaak was throwing an environmental suit at him.
How do you expect me to wear this?
Just fucking put it on, Stukov.
Stukov tore off his jacket, much to the disgust of Vermaak, and threw it and his hat into his shuttle and then struggled into the suit. When he tried to fit his arm inside, it ripped, but the suit tried to seal itself, oozing a thick sealant all over his shoulder. Surprisingly, it did keep the seal when he put on his helmet.
"Interesting," Stukov said over the comm. "I've never seen a system like this."
"There's a reason why Umoja's called the most technologically advanced in the sector," Vermaak said with pride. As he checked his suit and looked down at his feet, a thought occurred to him. It was both terrible and brilliant and made the hair on his neck stand up and his arm twinge with pain.
"Directorate suits have magnetic boots. Do these?"
"Yeah, kinda useless unless you're spacewalking and doing repairs."
Stukov looked towards the open docking bay door. He fumbled around with the suit's interface on his chest and activated the magnetic boots.
"What are you doing, Stukov?"
Stukov began walking towards the bay door, his heels sticking to the floor as he walked.
"Going for a walk."
"Walk? What do you…"
Stukov reached the edge of the bay and looked over the side. Below was the planet's atmosphere, swirling angrily. His head snapped up as a liberator zoomed by, chased by another one from Edge Fleet. Hesitantly, he stuck his claw out into space and grabbed a metal maintenance handhold just beyond the side of the door. He steeled himself and jumped, curling his legs up and swinging out towards the hull. He connected solidly but noiselessly with the hull's metallic plates as his magnetic boot took hold. He could hear Vermaak gasp over the comm.
"This is your plan?"
"I can walk unimpeded to the bridge from here."
"You're insane. What if you get knocked off and float into space?"
"Then you'll have one less problem to worry about," Stukov said, annoyed. He pulled himself up, orienting himself on the side of the ship and standing slowly from a crouch. Now that he was in zero gee, he would have to be careful. The slightest movement could launch him into space and hurtle him to his doom. He looked to the planet below. If he was caught in the planet's gravity well, he would suffer a painful, fiery death. If he didn't, he would drift in space for the rest of his probably long life. Even if he contacted his zerg to retrieve him, being able to find his small form in the largeness of space would be a difficult feat, and he could go into torpor and freeze before they found him. Burning up in the atmosphere is the kinder fate. But let's try to avoid both, eh?
"Stukov, you…"
He could read his mind still and could see all the things that he wanted to call him. Stukov chuckled softly. Vermaak was overreacting, he thought. This is by far not the stupidest thing I have done. Stukov put one foot in front of the other, gauging the strength of the magnetic pull of his boots. He found it surprisingly weak. How long has it been since I have trained in zero gee? He thought. I was a young man. Forty years? My god. He realized that maybe this wasn't as good of an idea as he thought it was. Taking large strides, he made his way to the top of the battlecruiser, where he could walk along the ship's dorsal spine and make his way to the bridge. It was an achingly slow process, but he was gaining momentum as the hull started to slope towards the top of the ship. But if I gain too much…
"If you fuck this up, Stukov, who's going to deal with Oyaleni? Who is going to get Marín out?"
He hesitated. It was a fair point, but he was sure that he could make it. And if he did fuck it up, he would find a way to get to the bridge and Marín. He would think of something.
"Talk to Izsha then. She will help you."
"Dammit, Stukov…"
Stukov crested the top of the ship—and his momentum was too great. He let out a strangled cry as he angled his feet down, trying to scrape the side of the ship. But he was already too far away and arcing further with each passing second. In desperation, Stukov reached out with his infested arm, poising it to burrow into the side of the ship. But he stopped realizing that would just push him further into space. He turned and used it away from him, slamming back onto the deck on his back. About to bounce away, the claws on his back struck out and pinned him down reflexively. Using the arm and his claws was painful and destructive to both him and his suit. It started hissing—he had overwhelmed the leak-plugging system of his environmental suit. He planted his feet and slowly and carefully stood.
"Can you hear me? What is your status, Stukov?" Vermaak yelled in his ear. Stukov realized that his comm had been on when he had lost his footing and cried out. Vermaak had most likely been yelling at him for several minutes but Stukov had tuned him out.
"Everything's fine… Uh, a miscalculation…"
"Stukov, this is what I was talking about. Your harebrained idea is going to get you killed."
"Worry about your mission, General," Stukov snapped, "And I'll worry about mine."
But Stukov was not fine. His feet to his thighs and the palm of his right hand was all pins and needles—a sensation that he had not felt in some time—and his left arm had fluctuated again slightly. He could hear the hiss in his suit grow louder, meaning the seal on it was deteriorating quickly due to his arm's expansion and contraction. Fear of death. Self-preservation. Something both my human and zerg instincts can agree on.
What he could see from the top of the ship did not abate his fears. The ship seemed small against the bright planet below and the hull of the ship was alternately bathed with light and dark as the liberators—Ahlberg and Barre's distraction—battled silently overhead. It was a spectacle he had never witnessed this close. Their canons glowed in the darkness and he could see them in their entirety. It was a feeling of terrifying sublimity realizing the danger he was in but also that few people had most likely attempted what he was trying to do. A liberator came within a few meters of the ship and Stukov ducked out of reflex, causing him to lose his footing again. He bobbled for a few moments, doing a forward somersault but was able to right himself again. This time he had been able to keep quiet and not alert Vermaak. He chided himself for getting distracted. Then he realized that the Uhuru had taken some slight damage. Air hissed out from a compartment that had been breached, but soon stopped. It was a forward bulkhead, and so most likely had a backup automated pressure-loss system. But they need to be more careful. Without power, a large impact could cause the ship to break up. With no shields of forcefields… He needed to focus on his task and move quickly.
Stukov looked towards the bridge. It was at least two stadiums' length away. He would have to keep moving and step up the pace, but not without some risk. His arm would not be ready to save him for some time while it healed. He carefully, one step at a time, moved down the immense body of the ship towards the bridge's perch. But he didn't quite know what he would do when he got there. There were windows on every side of it and passing near them would alert those inside. He would have to give it a wide berth, but also he had no idea how to access the bridge from the outside. He would have to consult Vermaak.
"Vermaak, come in."
"Yeah?"
"You know this ship well, yes?"
"I've been on it a good chunk of time, yeah," Vermaak said, sarcasm tinging his voice.
"When I get to the bridge, I'm going to have to break in. Any idea how to do that without venting the bridge to space?"
Stukov could hear Vermaak sigh over the comm.
"No, no I don't. Goddamn it, Stukov. This is why you gotta tell me what the fuck you're doing before you do it."
"You wouldn't have let me do it if you had known."
"I'll ask around. Ahlberg or Barre probably has an idea."
"Well, hurry. I'm well underway."
Vermaak grunted at him and cut the comm.
The fighting from Ahlberg and Barre's "distraction" loomed near again. A liberator from the Uhuru again came close to the ship, banking away at the last second, but the liberator from Edge Fleet that was in pursuit managed to strafe and clip is as it turned, sending it aft over prow towards the Uhuru.
If it hits... Stukov thought, crouching down. There were no handholds near him. Silently, the liberator turned in space towards the ship, meters away from the hull and from him. It is going to hit. It will strike the deck and the reverberation and depressurization... The weak magnetism of his boots would not be able to save him, and he was not even sure his arm would have enough momentum to shove him back towards the ship—even if it was ready. But the wild turn of the ship saved him. It rotated just enough as it neared to miss the deck entirely. Stukov cried out in a mixture of panic and released fear as he watched the ship spin slowly towards the planet. A near miss for me, but the pilot... He watched as the liberator faded from view, dwarfed by the planet's atmosphere. There was probably some sort of emergency protocol the pilot could initiate, he knew, but his or her chances were slim.
The comm buzzed back on again. Before Stukov could answer it, Vermaak spoke to him, agitation in his voice.
"Marín's awake and talking. But she wants to speak to you…"
"Put her on!" He said, a little too enthusiastically. Stukov stumbled slightly but recovered. He grinned as he heard Vermaak's annoyed sigh just before the click of the comm switching over.
"Stukov, what the hell do you think you are doing?" Marín said, her tone hushed but obviously incredulous. Stukov chuckled to himself.
"I'm out enjoying the night air, Admiral. It's beautiful. Your friends are putting on quite a light show."
"You are insane. Risking your life to free me is not worth it. Without me, the fleet will survive. Without you, the fleet has no zerg armada."
"That may be true, but I may do what I wish with my life or lack of it. And you forget that my son is on your ship, and without your presence, I have no guarantee that Oyaleni will not use him to blackmail me as Reeves did."
Marín sighed.
"I… hadn't thought of that. With the way Oyaleni is acting…"
"What is your status?"
"Still in my office. Safe for now, but not much longer?"
"Why?"
"They have an engineer up here… He has a plasma torch. It'll take some time, but he's about to try to burn though the door."
"Then I need to get moving. When I get there, how do I get in without venting the compartment?"
"Well, there's an access port they use for maintenance… to clean the bridge viewports or replace signal lights… it has a manual airlock, so when you open the door…"
"It will vent the lock but not the deck. Atmosphere loss will be minimal. How much air does the Uhuru have?"
"Three hours."
"That's cutting it close."
"They're already passing out breathers down there. Ahlberg's working on getting into engineering to restore power. But we're all hoping that once you get up here…"
"That I will overpower Oyaleni and the conflict will end."
"Yeah," static from the comm buzzed quietly in the silence. Stukov became aware again of the hissing sound of his suit venting air. "When you get here…" There was a tension in her voice, like she was picking her words carefully. "I know you are angry at them… and that they have committed treason and put your son in danger… but…" She was right. He was angry, but that was only part of it. "Give them a chance to surrender. And even if they don't, don't kill them…" Stukov didn't answer. It would be harder to go in and ambush them if he had to use non-lethal force. "Stukov?"
"I don't understand why…"
"Promise me, Stukov."
He sighed. "You have my word I will do whatever I have to do to mitigate harm to them—but I am getting you out of there."
"That's all I ask. I have to go. Oyaleni is getting suspicious of me hiding behind the desk for so long."
"I understand. I will be with you soon. I will contact you telepathically when I am about to start my assault. I may need a distraction…"
"Okay, I'll keep an ear out…"
The comm cut off and Stukov was alone again. He reached the base of the rise on which the bridge rested and was relieved to find handholds on this part of the ship. Able to reach far above him with his infested arm, he was able to hook each handhold with his claw and haul himself forward. As he made his way—safer than he had been before—he took stock of what had led him here. He searched his mind for another solution. He could have ambushed the fleet, but Marín may have been killed—or the Uhuru, in it's weakened state, destroyed. It shouldn't have mattered to him, but he thought his son was onboard, and he, along with Marín, would have perished. Stukov reevaluated his motivations. Did it really matter if Marín lived as long as his son was safe? She had risked her position to help him. But was his judgement now clouded by his humanity? The Swarm understood the motivation for him to save his son. The zerg are preoccupied with "sequences"—bloodlines, mutations, heredity. They want my son to live. But he wondered why it let his anger flow freely when he thought about defending Marín from Oyaleni and her followers. He thought it could perhaps be the increased bloodlust due to the situation with his son or the recognition of her as an ally that aligned his humanity with the Swarm. And he left it at that. She was a beneficial ally. If I do not keep her safe and allow another Umojan to come to power, I will be at a clear disadvantage—and this will balance our ledger. And, though he couldn't admit it to himself, he wanted her gratitude.
But whatever happens, I can't blame my motives on her deeds anymore. Someone will notice I am loyal to Marín beyond what is called for. But he saw several ways he could rationalize it. It was, after all, not out of character for him to serve a larger ego—DuGalle and then Kerrigan. He was comfortable in the position of second as a man. Doing the work, making the day-to-day decisions, being the trusted advisor—letting someone else take the credit with the penalty of being the "face" and the charismatic leader. He took on more danger, but he could choose whom he answered to and did not have to explain himself when situations went awry. It's one of the reasons he fell into weapons research. He was buried in levels of "need to know" and security. And he could go home at night. Until, at least, Gerard had landed the leading position on the Expeditionary Fleet and had dragged him away from Earth—and his family. And what did leadership and promotion get me? Death. And then isolation. But whatever the outcome, he reminded himself, his son was here and as long as he lived there was some hope he could make a new life for himself. And even if he didn't… Death, he knew, could be undone. Abathur would readily remake his son if he asked. In fact, Abathur would most likely relish the chance. My son is a "degenerate." Abathur would make him into something powerful—he would have power even greater than mine. And Marín… He pushed the thought aside. It would not be something she would want and it made him uncomfortable that he thought about it for her. His son was his son, and he could be selfish. But if it came to it, the option was there. If the Swarm wanted me for my knowledge, they would want Marín for the same. At least, that's how I'll pitch it to Abathur… if it ever becomes necessary… But he knew they would not be the same; he had not been the same. And they would never forgive him for it.
Horner watched nervously as the Beynac turned in space, re-aligning its weapons array towards the Edge and Core fleets. There is something ass-clenching about asking Mira to do this… One slip or insult—perceived or otherwise—from the Umojans, and she won't think twice about vaporizing them, agreement or not. He groaned inwardly as his adjutant warned that the Beynac was powering up. The Umojan ships had gotten the same warning and scattered quickly to get out of range.
"Incoming transmission from the Liberté. Vice Admiral Mullenix requests to speak with you."
"Finally. Patch him through."
"Admiral Horner! Theft and misuse of the property of the Umojan Navy violates our treaty and firing upon Umojan vessels is an act of—."
"Admiral Mullenix…"
It was the first time that Horner had seen Mullenix in the flesh, and his appearance startled him. He was what you would expect from an Umojan—heavily biohacked and with a cold demeanor. Horner also recognized the hardware of an old-style battlecruiser captain. He has been in the service a long time. "…I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Are you telling me that you are pretending you have not taken control of the Beynac? Those ships around it…" light flashed across the bridge and a panel behind him blew, throwing sparks into the air and causing the feed to fry for a moment. In the background, someone was yelling frantically. Mullenix kept his composure, glancing backward for only a moment.
"…Are not Terran Republic. And I have no control over them, believe me," Horner said, suppressing a chuckle. "But if you'd like for me to put in a good word for you to their commander, Mira Han…"
"Mira Han? You hired a mercenary to try to keep me from becoming fleet admiral?"
"No, I called Mira to help retake Tarsonis. When she got here and saw you dicking around and squandering our resources fighting each other, I can't say she was pleased. Can't say I was either."
"This is outrageous!"
"Stand down, Admiral. If you do, Mira Han will see reason… hopefully."
Mullenix's clenched his teeth as his inchoate fury built. He cut the comm on Horner. A map of the immediate area appeared above the war table in place of Mullenix's face. He's running. They're going to regroup with the other Edge Fleet ships and surprise the Uhuru… Horner had not wanted to bring anyone but Han into this conflict because she was a random element. Like Stukov, no one would assume her movements were the work of a specific government. But this was an emergency. If someone needs to act, he thought, it should be the protoss. They won't try to sanction them after the fact. It's hard to sanction a power that is more advanced than yours. It's already an unequal alignment. Horner felt old suddenly. His through processes after governing for five years had certainly changed.
"Adjutant, call the Spear of Adun."
Artanis's inscrutable mouthless and noseless face appeared above the war table.
"Admiral Horner, I see that there has been a development in the conflict between the two Umojan fleets… Do you require assistance?"
"Yes, Artanis. Stop those Edge Fleet ships from leaving."
"Of course, Admiral."
Within seconds, a wing of arbiters departed from the Spear of Adun towards the fleeing Edge Fleet ships. Horner switched his view to the Hyperion's forward camera array. From it, he watched as the Beynac continued to sporadically fire at Edge Fleet ships but was definitely pulling its punches. Mira got the message, thank god for that. The arbiters swiftly reached the departing battlecruisers and glass-like cages of light spread out from them, enveloping the Edge Fleet ships. The arbitors had caught them in their stasis fields. Calvino and Core Fleet surrounded the captured vessels. Horner sighed and rubbed his face, relieved. It's over, he thought. Now, if only we can get in contact with Fleet Admiral Marín…
Stukov climbed the last few meters to the access port. He hugged the hull, stooping to keep himself below the viewport windows. Suppressing the urge to look inside, he reached for their minds. Oyaleni and Marín he recognized, but there were three others—the two marines and the engineer. Marín was furthest away; he could tell by the interference he felt from the machinery and the other minds in the room. Oyaleni and one of the men were standing together between him and Marín. The others were standing equidistant but in another direction. Marín in her office, Oyaleni and one of the marines outside. The other two… posted at the lift? He didn't know exactly, but their posture made sense—and that was most likely how he would have to access the bridge. The access port would put him on a deck, but he would have to scale the inside of the lift shaft to reach the bridge. He grabbed the hatch on the access port. It had a manual, crank operating mechanism. Bracing himself with his boots on the hull, he gave it a hard twist. It gave, and he turned it slowly. Once it unlocked, he gave it a sharp tug with his infested hand. Opening it took less force than he was expecting. The door swung suddenly out into space, flung open by the air behind it—and took him with it. He bellowed and swore as it threw him against the hull. But he considered himself lucky; if he hadn't been hanging on, it would have batted him out into space. He stayed there for a moment, clinging to the door. Stukov realized he was hyperventilating, white knuckling the opening mechanism. He immediately stopped, frowning, thinking that reaction very odd. Slowly he extricated himself from behind the door, using the magnetic boots to reorient himself. He carefully put one foot in the door and immediately felt the pull of gravity. Moving himself to a sitting position on the side of the lock, he slithered inside like slipping into a pool. His landing was less than graceful. Stukov landed on his knees inside the small airlock. If I was not infested, he thought, I surely would have injured myself—twisted my knee or my ankle. But if I wasn't infested, I would be floating in space right now. Who cares about a knee? He pulled the door closed and re-bolted it then leaned heavily against the bulkhead. Now he had time to feel afraid. He marveled at his hands shaking. It was a novel emotion for him. But he had made it. The difficult part, he hoped, was over. He sighed and stood up again, ready to execute his plan.
Stukov opened the other hatch and a strong gust of air rushed past him. He stepped out into an alcove just beyond the airlock. On both sides of the alcove hung tools—wrenches, spanners, wire splicers… Flashlights. No, I can see just fine. That would only give my enemy an advantage. Vermaak broke in on his comm.
"What's your status, Stukov?"
"I just made it inside."
"Good," Vermaak said, sounding slightly surprised. "What's your plan now?"
"There are three men up there—and Oyaleni."
"That's what Marín told me. Two marines and the engineer that's trying to cut her out."
"I'm going to access the lift, take out the guards, and then deal with Oyaleni… I need to get in there-now."
"Marín wasn't too happy when I told her what you were doing."
"Oh? What did she say?"
"She objected. Pretty spectacularly."
"Heh."
"She's gonna blame me if you get hurt. So don't. Lift doors on that level should be unguarded. Level isn't used for much."
"If I get through, I'll let you know. If I don't…"
"I can figure that out on my own. Go on. We don't got much time."
Stukov shambled down the hallway, his magnetic boots sticking with each step. He turned them off. Briefly he considered removing his helmet, but he thought better of it. Obscuring my identity—arm notwithstanding—might give me an advantage. And it would afford me some protection from their weapons. Prying the lift-shaft doors open, he searched in the darkness for the ladder that would take him up to the bridge. The lift was inoperable, and so the trek would take some time. There were work lights strung up from the bottom of the shaft. I'm not the first to make this climb. It was still hard to see, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the light. Admittedly, he was more used to low light than he was to the brightness of a battlecruiser interior. He could see well enough to perceive that the bottom of the shaft was a long way down. Choosing his motions carefully, he climbed awkwardly in his ill-fitting boots, his bloated arm more of an inconvenience than a benefit.
But when he got to the bridge, he put it to good use. He wedged his fingers between the doors, pulling them slightly apart to peek through. Marín sat defiantly on top of her desk as the engineer, his torch throwing sparks in the darkness, tried to cut through the office door. An orange glow was growing in the metal. In a few minutes, he would be through. Otherwise, the bridge was dark, and the torch threw an eerie glow on the now-black surfaces of the polished-glass interfaces of the Umojan ship's bridge.
"How much longer?" Oyaleni said.
"Almost there, General."
I'm here, Admiral… in the lift…
Marín's dark eyes flitted up. He imagined that she caught his eye, but there was no way she could see him in the darkness. Marín turned away slowly, shifting forward slightly on the desk. The two soldiers were camped beside the elevator doors, waiting. They were watching Oyaleni, but their guns were trained on the lift. This might be… painful.
"I'm starting my assault," Stukov said quietly over his comm, not waiting for Vermaak to answer. He turned it off and turned on the speaker on his helmet in case he needed to speak to the marines or Oyaleni. Just as he pushed the door open wider, Marín launched her body shoulder-first against the door, making a loud thud that reverberated down to the deckplates below. The engineer wailed in fright and fell backwards, burning himself with his own torch. The two soldiers turned and took a few steps forward, training their guns on the office, surprised by the sudden commotion. Stukov laughed quietly to himself. It was just what he needed.
"Don't let her intimidate you. Get back to work!" Oyaleni said, yelling at the spooked engineer. Stukov whipped his arm forward and grabbed the first soldier throwing him behind him and down the lift shaft. The other man rounded on him. Stukov put his human hand up and spoke through his speaker, pitching his voice up and trying to sound Umojan.
"Friend! Don't shoot! Friend! What the hell was that?"
The soldier hesitated, confused, just long enough for Stukov to turn his arm back around and shove the man against the wall, cracking his CMC's faceplate and knocking him unconscious. Oyaleni turned to him in surprise and fright. Stukov removed his helmet and advanced towards her, his arms slightly raised. There's no point in resistance now. There's nothing she can do to stop me.
"Stukov," she said angrily.
"Oyaleni, this stops now. Give me your stun pistol."
"You're making a mistake," she said, calmly taking out her stun pistol and handing it to him stock first.
"I know that I am not," he said, reaching for the pistol. "Now," Stukov said, looking around, "you're going to call you subordinates and…" as he put his hand on it, Oyaleni grabbed his arm and pulled him to her, hitting him with an uppercut with her other hand. As a man, the blow would have broken his jaw and knocked him out cold. Oyaleni was larger than him and a trained marine, but as it was, the blow staggered him, and he could already feel tendrils of zerg infestation wrapping around the shattered bones in his jaw, knitting them back together. With a fluid motion, she pulled a hidden high-caliber pistol out of her jacket and shot him point-blank in the chest. His human reaction was to gasp and clutch at his chest as gel from the suit and his purple-black blood poured out onto his hands.
"What, you didn't think I'd shoot you? You're a fucking parasite."
His vision tunneled as he looked down at himself. Suddenly the blood wasn't purple and already coagulating in the hole in his chest; it was red and flowing freely down his UED uniform and splattering on his black boots. He looked up at Oyaleni. The howl of the Swarm flooded his mind, urging him to eliminate the threat and kill the human. With a feral growl he leapt at her, wrenching the gun out of her hand. The engineer scrambled away back to the lift, disappearing into the shaft. He grabbed her by the throat and shoulders with his infested arm, pushing her against the steel and glass door of Marin's office. Behind him, Marín backed into the desk, vaulting over it to get away from them, despite the fact they were on the other side of the door. Stukov was cowed by Marín's presence. Her eyes were wide as she watched them. Oyaleni screamed at him in anger.
"Don't touch me, you disgusting—"
"General, I am well aware of your prejudice against me and my… affliction…"
"You also can't be trusted. Marín can't see it, but I can. You can barely contain yourself now that you've become powerful again—and we helped you. And now that your son is safe, you'll take him and turn against us—and we can do nothing to stop it."
"That… is not true," but in a way, it was. Had he not just been thinking about his motivations? And she was right. He was unstable, but he wasn't sure that was why. "And despite that you just shot me, I have no interest in harming you." But what she had said was enough to call his attention away from her movements. She grabbed the stun pistol from him and jammed it into his temple, firing it against his head. His vision went black and he could hear himself screaming, but it grew fainter and fainter. Pain ripped through him, traveling from his temple down into the pit of his stomach, lighting fires as it went. He could feel it in his teeth; he could feel it in his bones. His flesh twisted and spasmed. It was like extending his arm a great distance but all over his body. In his mind, Oyaleni became Narud as he had first appeared—as Samir Duran. His rifle was still in his hands. He smirked at him, watching Stukov fall to the ground as he tried to staunch his fatal wound with his ruined arm.
But then the pain stopped. He heard a clicking by his ear. Oyaleni was straddling his chest and he was sprawled out on the floor. The charge on the pistol was spent, but Oyaleni was still desperately firing, still trying to incapacitate him. No, not incapacitate, he thought, she wants to kill. If she wanted to stun me, my stomach would have worked just as well. His mind cleared and the Swarm howled again, overwhelming him—and he let it. He reached up for her with both arms, grabbing her by the throat. As he sat up, he lifted her, pulling himself up from the ground and standing. Oyaleni struggled to touch the ground with her boots. He slammed her against the door again, baring his teeth and getting into her face. Then he slammed her again. And again. And again, harder and harder. She went limp in his hands. He became dimly aware that Marín was behind her, saying something and beating on the glass. There was blood seeping from the back of Oyaleni's head, pooling at her neck and running down the front of her jacket. She coughed. Blood ran from her mouth.
"You're a beast," she muttered, barely conscious. He slammed her against the door again in anger.
"And a venomous one at that, General," he said coldly. He had to speak loudly to hear himself over the Swarm. "You're so afraid of infestation, aren't you? You won't be…" His arm swelled slightly; the small orifice in his palm revealed itself, preparing to sink its teeth into her neck. "Infestation inhibits fear for… most… of the infested. As it does most higher brain function…" He had in a way predicted this, thinking that she would repeat her loathing of him in brain death on their first meeting.
"Don't…" she said weakly, "you monster."
"And you'll be the same."
Stukov heard something. He turned his eyes slowly from Oyaleni, loath to take his attention off his prey. It was Marín, her eyes wide with fright. Her mouth was open. She was saying something he couldn't hear and pounding on the glass of the door. The screaming voices of the zerg became fainter. He could hear her now.
"Stukov! No! Stop this!"
There was fear in her face. Of me. In the dim light of the bridge, he could see his glowering eyes and mouth twisted into a snarl reflected in the glass. He saw what Oyaleni saw, and what he had been hiding from Marín. And no matter his intentions, he had broken his promise and was betraying her trust. He lowered Oyaleni slowly to the floor where she collapsed in a heap. He picked her up and carried her to the war table, sitting her up against it. Stukov injected her with healing mutagen and then covered her with just enough infestation to keep her from moving. Turning towards the door again, he peered hesitantly at Marín, walking slowly towards her. Stukov looked at himself in the glass again. This time, he appeared anxious and tired. Blood—Oyaleni's blood—speckled the windowed door. It looked like it was on his face. She backed away. She's still afraid. He realized the depth of his mistake. He had let the Swarm possess him and let go of his humanity—and she had seen him do it.
It's safe to come out now, Fleet Admiral.
You'll excuse me if I stay on my side. I'll let Vermaak know you were… successful.
She went to her desk and righted her chair, sitting in it and pulling out her datapad. Stukov sighed and turned around to sit with his back against the office door. Resting the back of his head against the cool glass, his anger was replaced by regret.
I'm sorry, Marín… I…
He waited and she didn't respond.
I overreacted. Oyaleni… I've… been shot before. By an ally—or someone I thought was one. It was an explosive round at close range. I had just enough time to turn and shield myself, but… It mutilated my face and almost amputated my left arm, he said, holding his infested arm aloft, it did take one of my fingers. Counting off his fingers of his left hand, he showed her he had only four. In Marín's mind, he felt the fleeting recognition that she hadn't noticed until now. But it didn't help. He put his hand to his suit where Oyaleni had shot him. Shrapnel from the bullet pierced my chest and my aorta. I knew I was a dead man. I watched myself bleed out—and could do nothing to stop it. That's how I died Marín, betrayed by another officer—an old friend—and an ally.
Marín said nothing. He couldn't bring himself to turn to look at her or to read her thoughts again.
There are many questions about my infestation that will always be unanswered. But I believe this is why I am… like this. Stukov put his hands in his lap, looking at them side by side. One, monstrous and unrecognizable, and yet it was his hand. The other, familiar, but inside fueled not by blood but by the corruption of the zerg. It was his no longer; his body was born of the Swarm and he merely inhabited it. My injuries are where the infestation took hold—I'm sure of it. Oyaleni triggered that memory. I was already scared… I thought she may hurt you if I didn't succeed—or my son. I… couldn't let that happen.
There was silence on the bridge. He knew that Vermaak, Ahlberg, and Barre were making their move, and that soon power would be restored and the conflict would be over. And so would his relationship with Marín, but at least she knew why and not that he was cruel by nature. There was a pressurized hiss behind him. Stukov leaned forward as the door jolted against his back. He heard Marín push the door open and the scuffle of her boots she walked past him to Oyaleni.
"Will she be all right?" She said quietly, not turning to him.
"Yes. What I have given her… in a few hours, she will be completely healed."
"Good."
"I'm… sorry. You told me not to…"
She waved away his apology. Putting her hands on the war table, she hung her head and sighed. Tiredly, she turned to him, leaning against the war table, crossing her arms. The anger and fear had left her, he realized, but she was exhausted.
"Are you going to be okay? A stun pistol to the temple… that should be lethal."
Stukov let out a short laugh and leaned back against the glass, looking up and trying not to look at her. He was afraid to. He didn't want to see the emotions in her face.
"Lethal means little to someone already dead."
Finally, he looked back at her. It was her turn to look away.
"Is that all… true?"
"Is what?"
"What you told me… getting shot… watching yourself die?"
"Yes."
"I can't imagine… and remembering your death…"
"I guess that's not something most people experience… you're the only one I've told that to… that part of it anyway…"
It was an intimate part of his history. In truth it made him feel naked, but she needed to know.
"Does this happen… often?"
"Does what?"
"Being… triggered."
"Oh. No… I… usually I have more control."
"See that it doesn't happen again."
"It won't…" He sat back against the glass and closed his eyes. "Marín, I'm sorry…" he blurted out. He was frustrated and almost crying. "I don't know what's wrong with me…"
He started when he felt her hand lightly resting on the human side of his face. Stukov opened his eyes. She sat down next to him.
"You shouldn't have come up here. You should have helped Vermaak…"
"No. You needed help. I had to…"
Marín sighed. "And I'm grateful. But how do we keep this from happening again?"
Stukov's mind worked quickly. There was no way he could think of that would cause a total cessation of the zerg's influence on his mind. But if he was right that being around humans was changing him, perhaps he could use that to his advantage in his relationship with Marín.
"Talking."
"What?"
"Like this. To someone who has been through what I have… combat… leadership… loss… I've been alone a long time. If I felt human again…"
"You wouldn't feel the need to be zerg."
"Something like that. If we could talk… regularly… You don't have to be alone with me… I could watch you drink…"
"I guess if you think it will help you, Stukov."
"Alexei. Please call me Alexei." He lightly touched her hand with his glove.
Renata then. When this is over, we'll… talk."
The lights on the bridge came on. He could hear air in the vents. The holographic image above the war table displayed its boot sequence. Marín stood abruptly. Stukov shakily rose and followed her to the war table.
Back to work…
Above the Oppenheimer's war table, Admiral Curchack's tired face slowly took form. She squinted at Valerian, her lips pursing as if she had tasted something sour.
"Valerian Mengsk," she said, her voice at once sounded both irritated and surprised, "I'm obliged to formally request you to surrender to Directorate forces immediately."
"Hold that thought, if you please. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
Curchack sighed.
"Vice Admiral Christine Curchack of the Aleksander II, commander of the Destroyer Fleet's combined battlecruiser armada."
And what an armada it was, Valerian thought, looking at the immense fleet of ships that the Oppenheimer's war table told him stretched out in all directions. They are doing what we expected. Gathering her for an advance on Korhal. That can be the only explanation.
"And you have exactly five minutes to explain the nature of your communication with me or surrender. Otherwise, I have no choice by to attack and subdue your small fleet."
Interesting. It doesn't sound as if she wants to engage. Valerian wondered why that could be. Whatever the reason, he thought, she is reacting to this situation very differently than I would imagine Reeves would. Valerian much preferred Curchack so far. There are reasonable people in the UED perhaps… beyond Reeves, DuGalle, and Stukov. He had little time to setup his ruse, and so he began to speak quickly before she could rethink her reaction.
"I've come to you because I have information that would be beneficial to the powers of Earth, and so I would hope we can come to quid pro quo agreement."
Curchack's eyes narrowed. It was clear she didn't trust him. There's a lot of that going around.
"You're defecting?"
"I…wouldn't call it that…"
"Then what would you call it?"
"Acknowledgment of Earth as a superior nation and power, exceeding the Koprulu sector in art, literature, and…"
"You don't have to kiss our asses, Mengsk. Forget I asked. What is your 'information?'"
"Because of my position as a former leader of the Terran Republic and my resources through my connection to Moebius Corp, I am privy to the plans and movements of the combined fleet as well as their strengths—and weaknesses. I will give you whatever information I have and continue to be your eyes and ears… if a few small concessions are made."
"And what concessions might those be?"
A small smile played at Valerian's lips.
Perhaps my dream of a united Koprulu sector is not yet dead.
Nova knew something was not right the moment she made her way onto the Dalarian Shipyards. The main structure—the station that connected the docking arms and held the central control tower—was suspiciously quiet. With the number of ships outside, shouldn't there be twice as many personnel? And more Directorate officers. But from where she crouched in the access tunnel above one of the shipyard's main computer nodes, she saw very few people walk by. I'm not going to question it. Not my job. This just makes my mission easier. She removed the panel and silently dropped down into the room, engaging her cloak. She inspected the terminal in the small, octagonal room. Valerian's intel was good…this terminal looks like it has access to the mooring control for this end of the station. On the other side of shipyard, Delta Emblock—the only ghost from her team she had been able to reconcile with after their ill-fated mission against the Defenders of Man—waited for her signal. Reaching under the computer's console and finding an inconspicuous spot, Nova planted a small, wireless, data tap device.
"Delta, are you in place?"
"Yes, ready when you are."
Now, we see if Horner's intel is good... On both devices was a code key. When activated together, it would look as though the tower was launching all ships at the same time—if Horner had the correct one.
"All right. Synchronize. Set the timer for five minutes. When the ships launch, they'll know we've been here…"
"They already do."
In one fluid motion, Nova reached behind her and unsheathed her monomolecular blade and swung it where she could now feel the presence of the man standing behind her. When her mind registered who it was, the blade stopped inches from his face. Shin regarded it coolly, his good eye flitting towards it, then turning back to her.
"Do you even know how to use that?" he quipped.
"You again," Nova said, decloaking. "What do you want?"
"To help you."
"I don't need your help this time."
"You're right. I meant 'you' as in your people. Because your friend is more interested in power than a win."
"What friend?"
"The little emperor…" he said condescendingly.
"Valerian," she said, unsurprised. "What has he done?"
"Made a deal. For what, I don't know. I only know that part of it was letting you free. I've been tailing you since you came onboard. I was going to try to stop you. But I was ordered to stand down."
"But why would the Directorate let us get away?"
"That you'll have to figure out on your own. You're already here... See what you can find!"
"If you know, old man. You need to tell me," Nova said quietly and menacingly from between clenched teeth. For a second, the room went slightly sideways for Nova. When she blinked to get her bearings, he was gone. "Goddamn it," she said quietly. Shin's powers were of a type of which she was unfamiliar. She had heard of ghosts that their strength was in hypnotism or suggestion. Nova thought that Shin was one of these. Which meant he was still probably in the room, but he had convinced her brain that he was not and then, most likely, engaged his cloak. This was how, she reasoned, he had been able to drop Gregory, who had a PI of a little over eight, by just telling him to sleep. His PI was most likely on the low end, but like Delta and her pyrokinesis, his type of power made up for his lack of telekinetic powers. Nova reactivated her comm to hear Delta and Reigel yelling in her ear.
"I'm fine…" she said, exasperated. "But we have a change of plans…"
