The sharp snapping of debris beneath his steps and the intense silence serves to only darken his mood as he surveys the scene before him. The chilled morning air wraps his form in its cold embrace as he grimly continues his trek through the terrible scene. Those of his accompanying caste, numerous survivors and witnesses to the carnage purposefully move about in an attempt to help those who they can. The many pathways within this small province, normally clear are now lined with numerous mounds of wreckage from the intense fighting that took place here recently. Buildings once bright and pristine lie shattered and blackened from the night's battle. The destruction of the surrounding structures alone would be considered inconsequential, considering that which was destroyed could easily be replaced in time. However, the scores of bodies of those lost during the senseless fighting that took place here is a great tragedy that he knows will only serve to create more misery and fuel the growing rage among his people.
"I had long hoped that such a scene would never be beheld by my eyes," softly says Gratix as he continues to wade through the destruction. "Protoss fighting Protoss again is an affront to everything that we have achieved and endured."
"We have yet to reached the central square Praetor," grimly states a templar beside him. "According to the survivors and witnesses we have spoken with, the fighting was most intense there."
"I am not eager to lay my eyes upon such a scene just yet Athok," says Gratix as he stops for a moment to pay respect to one of his fallen templars. After a moment of honoring silence, he continues his slow pace.
"Have we ascertained who was responsible for sparking this atrocity?" he asks as he passes several Protoss attending to the wounded.
"Not as of yet Praetor," replies Athok, "it will be sometime before we manage to compile enough information regarding the events of the previous night. However, from what we have gathered to this point, it appears to be the work of both the Judicators and our dark brothers."
"When will such madness end?" Gratix asks with frustration lacing his tone.
"I do not know Praetor," answers Athok solemnly, "I fear this matter has gone far beyond the point of controlling."
"You may be correct young one, but we must not surrender so easily to the madness that seeks to consume our people."
"Of course Praetor."
Gratix's procession silently resumes their trek towards the central square of the province. As they move closer towards their goal, the level of devastation merely increases, as does the number of those slain in the conflict. Bodies viciously slashed and battered line the pathways, creating a grisly trail of death that only increases the further the templars venture into the heart of the province of Nedraal. As if the grim scene could not possible get anymore worse, the templars finally reach the square where they behold a terrible sight. Dozens of their fellow brethren lie in grotesque positions where they fell; some still forever locked in combat with their now dead enemies. The ground once a mottled gray-white is stained blue from the vast amounts of life fluid spilled during the mass carnage. Walls and buildings lining the area are shattered and still smolder from the violent energies unleashed by both sides. Dark clouds of smoke from small fires still burning roll over the square like wispy beasts seeking to feed on the numerous lifeless forms.
"May Khas forgive them for dishonoring his great deeds," whispers Gratix as he bows his head in shame. "Have our forces located any of those directly responsible that survived the engagement?" he asks after a moment.
"We have only managed to recover a few survivors. Most of them are in grave condition and are being transported to the nearest facilities. The templars garrisoned here in Nedraal were the first to respond. We have located as many of the survivors that we could."
"Then let our answers begin with them," states Gratix as turns to leave the square. "I believe I have seen enough senseless and useless slaughter," he adds with disgust.
Moving quickly across the square and down a short pathway, the templars soon arrive at a section of the province that has been created to serve as a station for the wounded. Khalai technicians and healers move among those injured, administering care and aid to those in need. Those of the wounded from the different castes have been separated and isolated to prevent any further hostilities. Passing among them, Gratix casts his cold, condemning eyes upon them. The effect is immediate as each of those involved with the incident avert their eyes to the ground in shame. All around the province, the recently arrived templars maintain their vigil to ensure that such an ill crime does not come to pass again.
"This is one of our templars, who survived the battle Praetor," says Athok as he gestures towards a grievously wounded zealot. Despite the nature of his wounds, the zealot tries to rise to pay his respects to Gratix.
"There is no need to exert yourself," says Gratix as he motions for the zealot to remain still. "It is I who should be honoring you and those of your contingent."
"We do not deserve such praise. We failed you Praetor and have dishonored our clan," quietly states the zealot, "we were unable to prevent this tragedy from occurring."
"But you did succeed in stopping the battle from spreading," offers Gratix. "The praise is well deserved."
"Yes. We did contain the battle, but not without great loss Praetor. Many of my clan will forever remain in this place," says the zealot solemnly.
"And for their great sacrifice they shall forever be honored among our caste," says Gratix softly. "What is your name young one?"
"I am Nabis, of the Akilae tribe honorable Praetor," proclaims the zealot and there is no mistaking the pride evident in his tone.
"What can you tell us of what happened here, Nabis?"
"What I know is very limited, Praetor."
"Whatever you can offer will be appreciated," says Gratix as nods for him to continue.
"There was to be a meeting held for both the Judicators and the dark ones within the province to express their grievances and perhaps come to an understanding. It was hoped to be a peaceful means of resolving the growing strife among our peoples. As you can see, it did not work."
"No, it most certainly did not," says Gratix as the images of the dead briefly play through his mind.
"What happened that could cause such madness and rage to fill their souls?" asks Athok.
"We do not know," answers Nabis as he shakes his head slightly in confusion. "By the time our contingent arrived the violence had already erupted. It was sheer madness. We tried to get them to cease their fighting but it was to no avail. They were so consumed with rage and hatred that there was no use in reasoning. They charged our lines and we were forced to fight as well."
"You did what was required of you Nabis," says Gratix softly.
"I know Praetor," replies Nabis slowly," but it still does not prevent me from condemning myself for the lives of those that I was forced to take."
The templars gathered can merely stand in silence as they reflect on the words of one of their own. Deep inside, they all wonder when the time will come to pass that they will be forced to do the same. The intense silence is quickly broken by the words of an approaching zealot.
"Praetor Gratix," states the zealot as he comes to a stop and bows respectfully before continuing. "The conclave is convening and requests your immediate presence."
"Is my shuttle ready?"
"Yes Praetor, all is ready for your departure."
"Then let us leave this place," states Gratix as he gestures for his honor guard to follow him. "Athok, remain here and uncover all that you can. I must have answers quickly."
"Yes Praetor," replies Athok with a bow of respect.
"May Adun and Tassadar guide and watch over you Praetor," says Nabis proudly.
"May they watch over us all fellow templar," he replies as he and his party quickly make for the waiting shuttle.
***
Time and distances pass quickly as the shuttle roars over the lightly hued terrain. Within a short time, those onboard soon find themselves at their final destination. The landing is uneventful but the trip towards the halls of the conclave only serves to remind these templars that much has changed with their people. A city once filled with conversations and jubilation at the prospects of returning to Aiur is oddly quiet now as few stop to converse with their fellow Protoss. Those that can be seen in the open silently hurry off to their unknown destinations under the watchful eyes of the templars assigned to maintain order within the province. The sight of what his people have become saddens him greatly as Gratix slowly ascends the crystal path to the conclave halls.
The intense flurry of emotions emitted by those within this building flow through his mind even before he reaches the meeting chamber of the conclave. Those members of his caste assigned to safeguard the occupants of this sacred building quietly step aside and pay their respects to one of their honored leaders. The soft sound of his footfalls and those of his guard detail on the smooth polished flooring are all that is heard as the noise echoes surprisingly loud within the lighted passage. After a few moments of walking down empty halls, the small party has finally arrived. The twin crystalline doors part with a soft hiss as Gratix draws near and the barrage of conversations nearly bowls him over as he enters the chamber with a barely suppressed sigh.
"THIS IS INTOLERABLE!" bellows Razzal of the Judicators as he gestures angrily towards the crowd of dark templars present. "It is because of THEM," he cries as he jabs a finger towards them accusingly, "that we are faced with such unrest among our people!" Several of those present grunt with agreement at his words.
"Your words are laced with lies and half-truths Judicator," viciously sneers back a dark templar. "You speak as if your caste is without blame? I have heard reports that indicate several of your kind as the fomenters of numerous incidents. Perhaps it is YOUR caste that is responsible for all this suffering!"
"Treacherous ones," says Razzal contemptuously as his eyes flare with anger, "you dare attempt to stain the honor of my caste with these false claims thus shifting blame from yourselves?"
"No less than what you have tried to do towards us," calmly replies Al'shak. "You have been the loudest voice against us and I wonder if you are not doing this to further your own station within the conclave at the expense of ALL our people."
"HOW DARE YOU-"
"ENOUGH RAZZAL," roars Trukal as he rises to pin Razzal with a vicious glare. "I have warned you before. I will not warn you again," states Trukal with a cold edge to his tone, "you will NOT speak such words again within these walls. We are interested in facts now, not your words of blind prejudices and hatred."
"But the dark ones MUST be held accountable for their crimes! Were they not the ones responsible for creating this crisis by attacking noble Kreza?"
"That still remains to be proven Razzal and is not for you alone to decide," retorts Trukal harshly. "Be seated Razzal," he commands, "so that our guests," he adds as he gestures towards the arriving templars, "may perhaps provide us with the answers we so desperately seek."
Razzal stirs briefly at the forceful command and then reluctantly takes his place among the Judicators present.
"I see that much has not changed in my absence," comments Gratix with dark humor as he stares up towards Razzal.
"Matters have changed Praetor Gratix but not for the better I fear," comments Nechabol of the Khalai. "But I must concede that some things remain the same," she says dryly as she spares a quick glance in Razzal's direction. Razzal merely glares back impassively.
"I hope that you bring us good news Praetor for we sorely need it," states Trukal tiredly.
"I am sorry to say that the news I bring before the conclave is most ill Elder," says Gratix grimly. "I have just returned from the province of Nedraal and the situation is just now coming under control."
"We have heard rumors regarding the destruction but merely considered it was due to hurried and inconclusive reports," states Al'shak quietly. "Is it as bad as we had heard?"
"Far worse," answers Gratix back as he lowers his head slightly, "it is the worst fighting I have seen since this crisis began and I fear that once news of the devastation spreads, the situation will only grow worse. The templars assigned to the province performed their duties without heed of personal safety and contained the fighting. but not without great loss," he adds quietly.
"Can this ill news possibly be contained so that it does not spread further among our people," intently asks Trukal.
"No elder," quietly responds Gratix, "it is far too late for that now."
"Then what you are saying is that the templar caste is now incapable of containing this matter," pointedly asks Razzal.
His harsh words cause Gratix to shake his ill mood momentarily as a swelling of coldness fills his form at the slanderous words directed at his caste.
"You tread on dangerous grounds Judicator, I am NOT in the mood for such games," coldly responds Gratix as his eyes flare briefly. "Many of my caste have already been lost attempting to prevent these acts."
"I meant no disrespect noble templar and I too grieve for their sacrifices," smoothly says Razzal as he quickly switches his stance in the discussion, "I merely wanted to confirm for the conclave that all avenues for containing this growing unrest have been exhausted."
"Are you still insisting on your mad idea of sealing the gateways to Aiur?" asks Gratix incredulously.
"It is a plausible solution to our current woes. If we continue to channel our templars to Aiur we have less here to protect our people," reasons Razzal. "We cannot support our forces if our new home lies in ruin. Our present templars must remain here on Shakuras to safeguard the peace."
"That idea is sheer madness," cries Erkaza, one of the elder dark templars who since this crisis began has been content to remain silent. His sudden outburst surprises all those gathered. "Only recently we have received word from Aiur that our forces there have struck a fatal blow at the Zerg. If we close the gateways then we deprive them of much needed supplies and reinforcements. By that very act we doom them to failure!"
"But at the same time we cannot disregard our people here," smoothly states Razzal, "imagine the chaos once news of Nedraal spreads. The ranks of our templars are already thinned considerably due to this conflict with the Zerg. If we continue to send what few remain to Aiur who will maintain the peace? How many more must perish before we act decisively? How many incidents like Nedraal must we be forced to endure?"
The conclave quickly grows quiet as those on the main council and their subordinates consider the words of Razzal and reluctantly find them true.
"Though we may not be able to send more troops," softly states Nechabol, "we should still be able to send vital war supplies and weapons to our forces there. That should not affect our remaining templar numbers here and yet still grant those on Aiur the means to fight the Zerg."
"Weapons and supplies are useless to our forces on Aiur if there are no new troops available to use them. I implore the conclave to reconsider this idea," pleads Gratix, though he knows his efforts are futile.
"The decision must be made soon," states Razzal quickly as he glances at the members of the conclave.
"The senior conclave must be allowed to discuss this matter in private," softly states Trukal.
"If the elders of the conclave are to meet then I ask that Executor Nagol be involved so that he may express the concerns of the templars," states Gratix.
"Very well Praetor," says Trukal, "we shall establish a link with Aiur so that we may discuss this matter with him."
"Thank you Elder," says Gratix with relief as he watches the senior members of the conclave, representing the many clans, file out to adjourn in the central chamber.
"They are mad to follow this scheme of Razzals," growls Erkaza as he silently moves beside Gratix.
"Of that I have no doubt," Gratix says simply as he gestures for him to accompany him out into the passage. "I must reluctantly concede that he does have a point, but sealing the gateways is not the answer to our woes. We must instead concentrate our present resources on…"
"Finding those responsible," finishes Erkaza as he walks beside him. "Yes. Our clans have all heard those same words from Al'shak and we are in agreement but I fear that any effort spent in finding them now will be wasted energy."
"True enough and also an opinion shared by many," concedes Gratix softly. "Have your clans had any luck finding any information regarding those who attacked Kreza?"
"Only questions Praetor," replies Erkaza with a grunt, "I, nor any of the other clan leaders, would condone such an insane act. None of our brethren have any knowledge of his attackers and I find that troubling. It is as if they just appeared from nowhere," he adds thoughtfully.
"Perhaps they did."
"What are you saying Praetor?" asks Erkaza as he stops and eyes Gratix carefully.
"I am saying that perhaps we are all the victims of another outside force," flatly states Gratix. "What has Al'shak told you?" he asks softly as he eyes his companion intensely.
"Not much really," he answers with a shrug as he resumes their slow pace. "Al'shak mentioned that we should be on-guard for another threat though he did not specify the reasons for his concerns."
"Then perhaps it is time that you learned the reasons from him then," quietly says Gratix.
"There is no telling how long the conclave will be in session," says Erkaza as he gestures up towards the chamber doors impatiently, "I will undoubtedly have to approach him later."
"Do not wait too long. He is soon to depart along with the scholar Chan'dras to assist our forces on Aiur."
"Depart for Aiur? At a time when his moderating presence is needed most here on Shakuras," asks Erkaza with barely concealed surprise. "Who will speak on behalf of our clans in the conclave?"
"Perhaps you should reserve that question for him when the conclave finally adjourns," offers Gratix.
Erkaza can merely grunt with annoyance at the comment. "More time spent waiting instead of doing."
"Such is the life of a warrior my friend," comments Gratix wryly. "We in the templar caste spend our moments waiting for ill news."
"Not all news your caste receives is ill," says Erkaza as his mood lightens some. "Kreza has almost completely recovered from the injuries suffered during his assault."
"When did this happen?" asks Gratix excitedly. "We were told that his wounds were grievous and that recovery was not likely."
"We received word of it prior to the conclave meeting. That fool Razzal used that news as yet another excuse to cast blame upon the heads of our clans," Erkaza says as he snorts with contempt. "Kreza is still incoherent but he will survive."
"The information he contains within him is extremely vital," voices Gratix quietly. "What he knows may very well provide the means to end the suffering that has infected our people. I must be there to speak with him the moment he is coherent."
"Then let us be off my young friend for I too am anxious to hear his tale. I am certain it will be most interesting." The two Protoss immediately quicken their pace to the distant medical facilities in the hopes that their stricken comrade may shed some light on their dark times.
***
Location: Langerston Falls, Central seat of the Umojan Protectorate
Walking swiftly along the crowded streets, the trio of men passes unnoticed as they continue their trek through the waves of people that line the streets of the gleaming city. Thousands of onlookers are scattered everywhere as they wave and cheer to the columns of arriving troops. The roar of engines and the rapping of thousands of boots on pavement are barely audible above the drowning cheers of the citizens of this sparkling jewel of a city. The massive military procession crisply turns onto the central corridor of the city and purposefully continues onward to the governmental center of the Protectorate, totally oblivious to their well wishers. Flags that lie draped along the central corridor that once displayed the proud star emblem of the Umojan Protectorate have now been replaced with black flags bearing the red mark of the Terran Dominion. One of the three men stops for a moment to stare up at the flapping flags and silently curses the new developments. Remembering his mission, he quickly averts his gaze and continues along with his companions. At a communications node, one of hundreds scattered throughout this city, the small party stops to view part of the transmission that has been playing constantly since the Dominion's arrival. The image on the display shows an attractive young red head speaking in a soft, somber tone.
"…so far the total dead has yet to be confirmed. However, what information has been confirmed is that several high-ranking members of the ruling council of the Umojan Protectorate were killed during this recent attack. We also regret to report that Minister Jorgensen's has finally been located and is unfortunately now listed among those slain. All within our union will especially feel his loss. Numerous eyewitnesses, namely the guards of the Protectorate forces stationed here at the palace, have confirmed the identities of those terrorists slain as members of Jim Raynor's forces. In related news, several nearby installations, mainly military and key industrial sites, were also targeted during the assault and heavily damaged. Losses are still being tallied as rescue crews continue to sift through the debris. We will continue to provide updates throughout the day as they become available. For the moment, we switch you now to a live broadcast from the newly appointed minister of the Protectorate regarding this recent incident of terrorism." The image of the news reporter shifts to the top right corner of the display as the image of Bjorn Johansen, former Deputy Minister of the Protectorate is brought to the foreground.
Pushing fifty-seven years of age, his tired face is an impassive mask but his eyes and voice betray his emotions as he speaks in a low, cold tone.
"The recent horrific acts by the marauding forces of Captain James Raynor has thus prompted the surviving ruling body of the Umojan Protectorate to seek an alliance with the Terran Dominion. At our request, the forces of the Dominion have arrived to assist us with matters of internal security. We welcome the opportunity to finally establish a relationship with our long time neighbors and look forward to the great advances that we can accomplish together to bring these long sought terrorists finally to justice. Though several members of the Protectorate have sympathized in the past with the cause of Captain Raynor, we can only speculate as to the reasons behind these vicious and atrocious attacks against our government and certain elements of our infrastructure."
"Was this recent attack possibly due to the official announcement stating that no further assistance, economic, militarily or otherwise, was to go towards Captain Raynor and his cause?" asks a reporter off screen.
"At this time, the matter is still under investigation but there are several advisors that believe that that statement was the catalyst for this latest act of terror. Since the release of the official announcement several weeks ago, we have seen a rise of terror incidents culminating with this recent atrocity."
"Though we welcome the assistance of the Dominion, does the Ministry consider our are forces no longer up to the task of providing security and protection?" asks another reporter.
"We have the utmost confidence in our forces. They have protected our union for many years and will continue to do so. However, since we have entered into an alliance with the Dominion and they have graciously offered military aid, we have not turned down their offer," adds the Minister with a small smile.
"By entering into this alliance with the Dominion, will the Umojan Protectorate still retain its independence or are we destined to become yet another mindless satellite territory to fuel the Dominion?" cynically asks an elderly reporter.
"The Umojan Protectorate has, and will continue to exist as a separate entity to that of the Dominion. Such a thing will never happen. Next person please," asks Johansen as he smoothly evades the question. Far off in the rear of the room, a pair of pale blue eyes locks onto the source of the pointed question. Turning briefly to her side, Alexia Sarles quietly speaks to a rumpled looking man at her side.
"Detail off someone to keep tabs on our 'friend' there. No sense in allowing dissidents like him to poison the minds of the populace."
"Yes ma'am," the man answers crisply in sharp contrast to his ragged appearance. "Do you want us to detain him later for questioning?"
"Not just yet colonel," she answers in a hushed tone, "let's see if he tries to meet with other like-minded, opinionated individuals. Who knows, he may even give us a lead on some of Raynor's people that are rumored to be operating within this city. Once they hear of what happened here, they'll probably go crazy trying to restore their damaged reputation."
"Understood ma'am," he replies softly as he discreetly raises a small transmitter and quietly begins to issue orders. Sarles returns her gaze to the audience and continues her duties.
***
"Well that bloody well answers the question of what's going to happen here now," grumbles the leader of the small group as he turns away from the broadcast in disgust. His two companions merely nod their agreement with his assessment.
"Time to leave Lyle," one asks softly.
"Quite," he answers as he turns to resume his pace, his men following behind him. "We need to get word out," he adds in a whisper, "that the Umojans are a write-off for any future support now."
"More great news," one grumbles.
"Indeed Stan," Lyle Smyth murmurs as he turns his small group around a corner to disappear into the crowds. Within an hour, the three men are onboard their small transport as it rockets up through the atmosphere of Umoja Prime. Once clear of the planet's gravitational field, they quickly plot in a new course and disappear with a flash as they head for their rendezvous.
***
Location: The Fringe Regions of the Terran Dominion
In this barren region, the only signs of activity are the stars burning softly amidst the dark blanket that is the universe. Only the occasional celestial disturbance that happens to pass through this desolate area serves to break the peace and tranquility that is the norm here. The events taking place now happens to be one of those moments. In the distance, a blazing light streaks across the darkened lanes in a desperate bid for survival. The pilot of the sleek fighter rocks his craft in erratic movements as he desperately tries to shake his pursuers. Scores of energy beams stab out from the darkness and cause his shields to flare from the impacts. Though his eyes fail to locate his hidden tormentors, his craft's sensors have better luck and manage to provide him crucial information regarding his attackers. What little it does display does not fill him with great hope. From the last count, he has at least several Terran fighters in pursuit and at the current rate his shields are being hammered; his survival is unlikely. Sensing that any further attempt at escape is futile, he grudgingly concedes that he has failed in his mission. With a fierce war cry, he violently whips his fighter on a reverse heading and hopes that his other comrades have faired better than he has. Energy beams and anti-matter missiles quickly ripple out from his fighter as he instead opts for a warrior's death rather than fleeing like a coward.
The Terran wraiths, caught unprepared by the sudden actions of their target quickly scatter before the wild weapons fire. One wraith blunders into the path of an errant missile from the Protoss scout and briefly appears for a moment. The anti-matter explosion blasts the Terran fighter apart viciously; numerous flaming trails and debris are left to mark the pilot's grave. The scout pilot instantly throws his fighter into a series of spiral maneuvers as he continues to spray deadly fire. By luck, several of his energy beams manage to catch one wraith on the wing, carving a small section off. A brief flash is seen as the wounded fighter breaks away leaving the now visible section to drift in space. The Protoss pilot's luck soon runs out as he turns to his side and can only helplessly watch two missiles streak in from his right to slam into his aft shields. His shields buckle under the hammering blows and he feels the impact as dull thuds along the base of his spine. His fighter violently shudders from the impacts and he looses control briefly but quickly recovers. Not fast enough, a series of laser flash across the void and riddle one wing, punching several dozen flaming holes.
He feels his craft dying under his controls but somehow he manages to avoid another volley of laser fire. His systems hoot a sharp warning and he turns just in time to witness four missiles streaking in from behind him. Seeing that there is nothing more to do, he closes his eyes and awaits the end. The four missiles slam up the exhaust nozzles of his engines and plow their way into the heart of the large fighter. The scout is instantly ripped apart and literally disappears in a massive flash of light to leave small bits of sparking wreckage to drift in space. The remaining wraiths immediately decloak and circle to evaluate their work.
"Son of a bitch," loudly curses Captain Theodore "Teddy" Dumars of the Dominion 35th Intercept Squadron, the Panthers. "I knew we should've just smoked him instead of playing with his ass."
"We got the bastard though," offers the pilot of Panther 3 as he watches small sparks flare from his damaged wing.
"Yeah but at the cost of one of ours and a broken bird Kev. Not exactly a fair-trade since we had the advantage," he snaps back angrily.
"The wing commander is requesting an update on our pursuit Teddy," states his wingman.
"Send this: Contact evaluated as a Protoss long range fighter. Have negated the target and we’re returning to station."
"Got it. Fleet has acknowledged your transmission boss."
"At least we now know who most likely took out the 6th Battle Group," comments Captain Dumars sourly as he turns the remains of his four-fighter element back towards the fleet. "Damn Protoss," he mutters quietly as he eyes the sparking wreckage of the blasted fighter one last time before rocketing away.
***
Far away in yet another distant sector of the Terran Dominion, one of the scout pilot's comrades is indeed experiencing better fortunes. Having detected an unusual but recognizable energy pulse several hours before, he decides it worthwhile to investigate. Riding the waves of energy back to its source, he has finally reached his destination; a small, communications buoy. He closes the distance carefully and slowly circles in on his target, wary of a possible ambush. Upon finally closing to within visual range of the device, his internal systems quickly begin to analyze the outgoing data. The information transmitted is completely alien to him and his systems and he grows irritated at the lack of results. After several failed attempts to decipher the code, he attempts another approach.
Keying in an algorithm into his systems supplied by Prelate Zeratul, he quickly tries again. His efforts are instantly rewarded as a flurry of spatial coordinates and plots are uploaded into his navigational systems. Large amounts of information concerning Terran vessels soon flash across his displays and he can only frown in confusion at the strange data. After several moments of processing the beamed information, the data becomes garbled and unrecognizable to his system as it quickly begins to degrade at the source. A sharp beep quickly alerts him to an intense energy surge building within the buoy and that draws a puzzled look from him. His eyes immediately widen as he soon realizes what that surge could possibly mean. The scout pilot quickly throws his fighter around and rapidly accelerates away from the miniature satellite, barely clearing the small anti-matter explosion that has replaced the buoy. As the last of the spent energies from the explosion wash over his craft he whispers a word of thanks to his ancestors who appear to continue to watch over him. Adjusting his course to the supplied information from the now destroyed buoy, he feels a swelling of satisfaction that his mission will soon be nearing its end. The scout fighter's engines flare like two twin suns as the pilot presses forward into the void. Within mere seconds, the fierce glow shrinks to a distant twinkle and then nothing as it fades into the sea of stars.
***
Location: Central Chamber of Protoss Conclave, Shakuras
"We understand your concerns Executor but the proposal Judicator Razzal has presented before this conclave does posses some merit."
"I am but a humble warrior, Trukal," says the hazy image of Nagol softly, "I will follow the wishes, whatever those wishes may be that the conclave decides on, but I must say that this proposal is not in our best interests."
"I am sorry Executor," regrettably says Trukal quietly, "but the majority of the conclave has agreed that the current situation on Shakuras must warrant such extreme measures."
"And what of us on Aiur? By now news of our initial victory against the Zerg has reached you. Already, skirmishes against the forces of Kerrigan are increasing with each passing moment as she continues to spread across our homeworld. I will need the bulk of our forces on Auir if we seek to ensure victory," states Nagol with frustration. "What will you have me do once my current forces soon begin to decrease due to losses as the Zerg grow greater in numbers?"
"You are templars are you not," ask Razzal. "You strike with the fury of the Protoss people and that alone will bring you victory."
The ghostly image fixes Razzal with a glare of annoyance before he speaks.
"Yes, we are templars," states Nagol proudly, "but words alone will not win us this conflict with the Zerg," he replies pointedly. "We require war materials and most importantly those needed to maintain and operate them. If you had ever engaged in battle you would know this."
Some of those present wince visibly from the stinging comment directed at Razzal. His eyes flare intensely as he is on the verge of erupting. Before he can speak, Trukal extends his hand out in a gesture for him to remain silent.
"We have no intention of denying you war material and supplies Executor," says Nechabol calmly, "that would assuredly doom all our templars to certain defeat and we would not allow such a thing to come to pass."
"But by closing the warp gates to Aiur, as Razzal has proposed," Al'shak says as he gestures towards his direction, "you will do just that."
"At the same time do we abandon our people here," sharply asks Razzal as he struggles to recover from the earlier stinging comment.
"Perhaps a compromise is needed instead," offers Trukal diplomatically.
"I am receptive to a compromise, Elder," says Nagol patiently.
"Instead of closing the gateways, perhaps we merely limit the number of templars that we send. War materials and supplies will of course continue to ship as they have in the past. With this proposal," he continues on, "our templars on Shakuras still maintain their presence here while slowly being funneled to Aiur to replace those lost."
"I would much rather prefer the bulk of our forces to be here now but I cannot forsake our populace at the same time," concedes Nagol tiredly. "Very well Elder, the plan is sound and you have the support of the templars in this matter."
"Thank you, Executor," says Trukal respectfully. "The group scheduled to travel to Aiur shortly will proceed unchanged but those following will be adjusted to these new guidelines."
"I will see you soon, Executor," states Al'shak as rises smoothly to bow, "and I look forward to serving at your side."
"The honor is mine, Elder. I shall see you soon," states the image one last time as it distorts and then fades.
The conclave soon adjourns and word of their decision quickly spreads. Those templars scheduled to depart for Aiur in the following waves are immediately reassigned to garrison duties within the numerous provinces. Disappointed at the abrupt change in plans, the majority of the templars share a collective sigh of relief as the proposal to sever the vital link to Aiur has been defeated. Though the templars do not voice their opinions, they hope that the new proposal will be sufficient to ensure that their fellow brethren on Aiur stand a chance. Only time will tell if they were right or wrong.
