He wore ludicrously large, dark glasses over his shaggy beard. His tattered, unwashed cloths set him squarely in the upper class of New Antiga, and he carried a soiled gym bag hung from his shoulder.
Ahead, he saw a burly man climb through the open fan hole that served as a door in the local watering hole. The man bent over to wipe his nose. Mengsk heard his whispered voice through the tiny receiver deep in his ear, “Clear.”
Stepping just to the side of the “door,” Mengsk scanned the interior of the bar, locating the members of his invisible shell of guards. He also saw the hunching figure of Joe King in a dark corner, trying to huddle out of sight. Mengsk slid into the seat across from him, and tipped his glasses to reveal his identity. King glared at him, “This better be pretty damned good, or I’m leaving.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Joe, but…” With no warning, Mengsk reached across the table, and shoved his hand between King’s legs. King jumped from his seat, but too late. Mengsk set the gun on the table in front of him. “Really, Joe. I’m disappointed, I thought we were friends.”
“Friends? Then why do you have no less than eight agents in this room?” King asked with a smile.
Mengsk made a show of taking a headcount, then looked back at King. “Congratulations, Joe. You’ve single handedly restored my faith in you ragtag militant types.”
“Get down to business. I always carry two guns.”
Mengsk cocked an eyebrow, and said, “I understand there’s some friction in your command, between you and General Conrad. After all, he joined the fleet a couple months ago, and his first day, he outranked you!”
“You’re dumber than I thought,” King said, “Conrad is too smart. He’ll catch on—”
Mengsk cut him off with a quick motion. “I’m not after Johnny. Not today, anyway,” he said, “But I happened to notice a fine terran ship in orbit, just glistening with shiny new Protoss technology. It would be a crying shame if one of them were left unattended.”
“How much?”
“It’ll put you on an even keel with the General.”
“How much?” King said, louder.
“All you have to do is see to it that the entire crew of the Macbeth is on shore leave tomorrow at sixteen hundred.” Mengsk said.
“How much?” King said again, almost shouting this time.
“Maybe you could be nice enough to leave an airlock unsecured, even,” Mengsk continued.
King produced his other gun, with the barrel just peeking over edge of the table. “How much?” he said again, slowly, accenting each word.
Mengsk hauled the gym bag onto his lap. He opened it a few inches, and withdrew a stack of stack of Dominion bills. “That’s a thousand credits, right there, and I have two hundred of those stacks in this bag.”
King tossed the money on the table, and started to leave. Mengsk leaned over, and grabbed his arm. He held up a small translucent chip. “This is the access card to a high interest account on Moria with fifty million credits in it,” he said. “Is that enough?”
King considered the offer, trying to keep his eyes from popping from his head, and finally took the chip, and the bag. “The crew will go on leave at fourteen hundred, and they’ll be back at twenty-three hundred. Be gone by ninteen hundred. The maintenance airlock is broken, and will open to any code.”
Mengsk smiled, “Pleasure doing business with you, Joey-boy.”
King leveled the gun at him again, “Call me that again, and Conrad will be waiting at the airlock for you with a platoon of marines.”
***
It was a common sight. Conrad, in a blind rage, storming through the bridge toward Calhoon’s office. However, it was not a common sight to see him storm that distance in tattered and stained civilian garb.
He reached the doors, slammed his fist into the controls, and breezed through the doors, already talking. Unfortunately, he remembered at the last minute that the doors on the Darkhammer worked as they were designed, unlike those on his ship, and slammed face first into the still-closed door. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, wiping blood from his upper lip.
The door slip open, and the Admiral stepped out. “You have to stop watching those old movies. You aren’t the kind of ghost that can walk through walls,” Calhoon said.
Conrad shoved past her into the office. As he passed, she said, “You’re out of uniform.”
“I know.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and pulled them inside out. His rank insignia fell out and clattered to the deck. He handed her a sheet of paper covered in incomprehensible scrawl.
“What’s this supposed to be?” Calhoon asked.
“I’m resigning my command of the ground forces.”
Calhoon threw the letter in the air. “Are you drunk?” she cried. “You’re the only person in the damn fleet to have any experience in ground based combat. Who the hell am I supposed to replace you with? That Morolto guy? He’s a slobbering idiot!”
“You’re recruiter hired him.”
“My recruiter is a drunk,” she retaliated. “And what about your ship? We only have three people fit to command a capital ship, and Joe and I both have ships.”
Conrad waved a finger at her, “I own that ship. I keep that ship.” He started to leave, trying to rub away a growing headache.
“You are drunk aren’t you?” Calhoon said. “And don’t try to walk out! I’m not done yelling at you yet. Who the hell do I replace you with? You’re the only one with army command experience.”
Conrad turned on her, and snarled, “I’ve commanded ground forces twice in my life! Do you know what happened to every soldier under my command each time?” Calhoon shook her head, “They’re all dead. The UED gave me my own platoon. My first field mission, and they all got eaten by Zerg. You give me a whole army. My first mission: go into a ship with nobody aboard and look around. They only thing aboard was a senile alien with an inferiority complex, and I still lost every damn one of my troops! And this time, I got the Protoss Executor killed! If Artanis were a Terran, he’d have us strung up now!”
Calhoon, patiently waiting for him to run out of steam, calmly said, “They didn’t all die. Lieutenant Roher is still alive.”
“He was a brat. I sent him to his room,” Conrad growled. “Just read the paper. Everything’s covered there.” He left as quickly as he could.
***
If there was one thing that wasn’t scarce in New Antiga, it was alcohol. After leaving Mengsk, it didn’t take King long to find another bar, this one built in the bay of an old dropship. A sign on the outside wall, made with silver tape, proclaimed the establishment to be the “Ro ket Flyer.” King forced himself to laugh when he found several strips of tape shaped like a “C” trampled into the dirt floor of the establishment.
He planned to spend the day watching game shows. They were all reruns from the days when there was an economy strong enough for everybody to give everything away, and the people were so stupid King started to wonder why he had never tried to get on any of the shows.
After several minutes, however, the UNN logo flashed onto the screen. A phony-sounding recording apologized for the inconvenience. The screen showed an outside view of a large enclosed-environment dome. The ticker line on the bottom said “LIVE Augustgrad, Korhal.” Still, it was obviously the product of several weeks of filming and editing. Mengsk appeared at a podium, under the reflected glare of the dome.
“Change the channel,” King said, flinging a beer can at the screen.
“That’s the only one,” said the barkeeper.
“Oh, come on, even Chau Sara had over a dozen channels, and they were in the middle of nowhere,” King said.
The barkeeper leaned forward with a look that would have been menacing on a man several times his size. “This isn’t the middle of nowhere. This is the bleak, desolate outskirts of nowhere. We only get one channel out here, and if you want to drink my beer, you damn well sure better be happy about that!”
King reached over the bar, and helped himself to another can. “At least turn the damn thing up so I can hear it.”
“I ain’t your nanny. Do it your self,” the bartender growled, taking the beer can back. “Pay first, drink later.”
“Didn’t I give you a fifty credit tip?” King said, snatching the can back.
The bartender let the matter drop. King got up and turned the sound up on the set, swearing to himself.
“As most of you know,” Mengsk was saying, “General Domes was killed by Confederate Resistance forces at Umoja recently.”
“Killed? Suicidal maniac got what he was after,” King said, throwing his beer at the screen again. It missed, and splattered on the wall. Mengsk continued, undaunted, “It is my distinct pleasure to present to you his replacement–,”
“More cannon fodder.” King growled.
The bartender shouted, “If you wanted to hear it, why don’t you shut up!”
By now, a new man was walking up to the podium. King couldn’t hear his voice over the ranting barkeeper, but the bar across the bottom conveniently reappeared, with the text, “Brigadier General George Calhoon.”
“Shit,” King said. Not waiting to see anymore, he tossed a wad of bills on the bar, and ran from the building, ignoring further shouts of the barkeeper.
***
“What about the ground forces?” Morolto said emphatically, waving his arms.
“That’s her problem. She can ditch them at New Antiga for all I care,” Conrad replied. “I still command the Macbeth, and you and the rest of the crew are officially in my employ. So if she has anything to say, we desert.”
“Are you crazy? Calhoon would kill us!”
Conrad shrugged, “I’d probably get you killed long before that,” he said. “I have some unfinished business on Tarsonis.”
Morolto gritted his teeth, but remained silent.
“Are you going to desert too?” Conrad said, pointing to the door, “I can fly this ship alone if I have to.”
“No sir, General,” Morolto said, snapping a salute.
“It’s just John now. And don’t salute me. You look like a clip from a bad war movie!”
***
“Son of a bitch!.” Calhoon cried. She pulled her shoe off, and flung it at the small screen. The image of George Calhoon shattered in a shower of glass and phosphor sparks. “That Goddamn son of a bitch! I’m going to kill him!”
“Calm down, Admiral,” King said, as calmly as he could. “Who is that?”
“Somebody I used to be… acquainted with.” Calhoon said, fishing her shoe from the smoldering console. “Son of a bitch! He killed my mother, you know?”
“I take it General Calhoon is your father?” King asked.
“No! He’s just a son of a bitch that knocked up my mother.” Calhoon snarled, taking several menacing steps at King.
King recoiled almost violently, barely catching himself before he fell from his seat.
Calhoon quickly caught herself. In a cool voice, she said, “Call General Conrad. Make damn sure to call him General, too, loud and clear, and if he whines about it, have him talk to me. Tell him, and the rest of the fleet officers, to prepare for war with the Dominion.” King could have sworn that was a gleeful edge in her voice. “After that, get me a full listing of Dominion facilities and strategic targets, as up to date as possible. Talk to Kane’s people, they’ll help. I mean everything. Missile silos, factories, spaceports, troop concentrations. Hell, I want the location of Mengsk’s personal bathroom on that list.”
Calhoon turned from him, and started fiddling with an undamaged console, replaying the broadcast. It took King a full minute to realize he’d been dismissed.
***
“Computer, seal the door.”
A scratchy beep echoed from the bulkhead speaker.
“Isolate terminal. Disable key logging.”
The usual annoying recorded voice squawked, “Voiceprint command override required.”
“Override Joseph T. King, Fleet Commander; commanding officer, CSS Reliance. Serial eight, five, two, two, seven, nine.”
“Override accepted. Terminal isolated, key log off,” the computer chimed.
“Redirect all communication to message center,” King said. After waiting for a final beep, he went to work.
It was a fairly simple task. He tapped into the Macbeth’s internal sensor systems, and installed a hook code. When he was finished, he fished a small piece of paper from the bag Mengsk had given him, and keyed the number from it into the console.
After King was forced to listen to several seconds of silence as the call was redirected across a dozen networks on as many planets, Mengsk’s falsely cheerful voice invited him to leave a message. “Shut up, asshole,” King said before the final beep. “At fourteen hundred tomorrow, the internal sensors on the General’s ship will report a minor reactor breach. Nothing major, but they will have to evacuate that section of the shipyard. Repair crews will take twelve hours to get there. The Admiral won’t allow them off of their posts for anything less than a red-alert emergency. The General spends most of his time on the planet, but he comes back to the ship every day at nineteen hundred for inspection. If he gets back, he’ll figure out what happened. Be gone before then.” He reached for the black button marked “Terminate.” With his hand hovering just over the button, he added, “Don’t call me here anymore, either.”
He closed the transmission. Heaving a massive sigh, his head sagged forward into his hands. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself.
***
The ramshackle spaceport was mostly deserted. A large painted sign permanently declared that all flights were delayed, and not to bother the ground crew about it. Calhoon arrived to find Conrad insistently bothering the ground crew, asking, “Do you have any idea when the next shuttle leaves for the shipyards?”
“When it leaves, sir. Now go sit down before I call security,” the young clerk said, his adolescent voice cracking.
Calhoon grabbed Conrad by the arm, and gently steered him back to the cluster of folding chairs. “Leaving so soon? You usually don’t leave the Citadel until eighteen hundred.”
“Artanis had the Citadel closed until he can find a Templar qualified to take Jazin’s place.” Conrad said, “There’s not much to do around here, so I was going to go inventory the officer’s lounge.”
Calhoon shoved him into a chair. “I wish you’d stop doing that every day. There are enough drunks in the fleet as it is.”
Conrad turned away from her, and stared at the scarred landing pad.
“General?” Calhoon asked.
“Didn’t you read my letter? It’s Captain, unless you see fit to make it lower than that,” Conrad snapped.
“Forget it…” she sighed.
The large speakers over the waiting area produced an indecipherable scramble of noise.
“Shuttle’s coming,” Conrad said.
“You can get that from—” Calhoon started.
“I lived on Shakuras for three years. I learned how to fly a dropship right here. You get used to the speakers.”
The ship held roughly ten meters above the pad for several seconds. Then, the engines cut off. The craft slammed down, scattering debris over the area. Conrad jumped to his feet, and strode to the dropship. “When is it leaving again?” he demanded.
One of the men, already refastening loose hull plates, replied, “Two hours, maybe three. If it takes any longer than that to fix things, then after the bar closes.”
Conrad looked at the group of men descending the ramp. He recognized them as crewmen from the Macbeth. “What the hell are you doing off the ship?”
The crewmen recoiled, and stared at their feet. Conrad stepped into the group, and started shoving around, looking for someone he knew by name.
A hand tapped his shoulder. He spun around, and was face to face with Commander Morolto. “Care to explain why the crew is deserting?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Morolto asked.
Calhoon, standing behind Morolto, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him against the hull of the dropship. She drew her sidearm, pointed it at the side of his head, and said, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pop you out of an airlock.”
Conrad answered, “Because it doesn’t kill him at seal level.” Pushing her out of the way, he turned on Morolto, who was cowering into a dent in the hull. “Didn’t I hear what?”
“There was a reactor breach. The computer sealed the whole section of the shipyard. We had to get out.” Morolto said, wide eyed with fear.
Calhoon put her gun away. “How bad is it?” she asked.
Conrad snorted. “Must be pretty goddamn bad,” he said. “The reactor has been offline for three days.”
Morolto’s eyes suddenly narrowed, “But, but…” he stuttered, “But an offline reactor can’t breach…”
“No shit?” Conrad said. “Something’s up.” He grabbed Morolto with one hand, and Calhoon with the other, and dragged them back towards the ship. “We’re going to find out what it is.”
***
Mengsk laughed. “Look at them run,” he said. “Idiots.”
“Yes, sir. Bunch of idiots, sir..” General Calhoon said.
The area was sealed off. Mengsk watched the shuttles leaving for the surface through the wide windows. Red flashing signs blazed “Radiation Warning,” up and down the corridor, but the small device in his hand read radiation lower that the expected background. “Don’t they ever think to double check things? The way people talk, the doors on this ship don’t work.”
“No, sir. The door’s don’t work, sir.”
“Well, George, are we ready to embark?” Mengsk asked.
“No, sir. The reactor, the one that supposedly breached, it’s offline. It will take a while to bring it up to speed.”
“How long?”
“Not long sir,” Calhoon said.
“Good. Good. Whenever you’re ready. We have plenty of time before the meddling general gets back from whatever the hell he does with the Protoss at that Citadel,” Mengsk said, waving a dismissal to his minion.
Turning back to the wide windows, he looked down at a splotch on the planet, which he assumed to be New Antioch. “Well, well, Johnny, my boy. You and your playmates will never see what hit you.” He tossed a mock salute down at the planet, “Nice knowin’ ya’ll.”
***
“Sorry, no admittance until we’re ready to take off.”
Calhoon tried to force past the two guards on the ramp. “I’m Admiral Calhoon, of the Confederate Resistance Forces. Let me by.”
“Sorry, Admiral. This isn’t the Confederate Resistance Forces. We don’t take orders from you here.”
Calhoon started to pull her gun from its holster, but one of the guards grabbed her arm, and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to the ground.
Morolto took a wide swing at the other guard, but quickly found himself pinned under the much larger man.
Conrad raised his right hand slightly, and ignited the warp blade on his wrist. He swung down, and cleaved the guard holding Calhoon cleanly across his torso. “Come on,” he said, ushering her into the ship.
As he closed the doors, he heard Morolto yelling, “Hey! What about me?” while still struggling with his guard.
“You got us into this! You get yourself out of that!” Conrad yelled back.
He heard several gunshots in the cockpit. He walked down the corridor to find Calhoon standing over the dead pilot, saying, “I hereby commandeer this vessel for use by and for the Confederate Resistance Forces.”
Conrad laughed. “I don’t think he can hear you,” he said.
Calhoon smiled back. “Legal junk. If I don’t say it, this is a war crime.”
***
Mengsk noticed the shuttle approach. He watched it dock at the first port beyond the sealed doors. It didn’t bother him. As long as the computer thought there was radiation in the area, it wouldn’t let anybody past. But still… “General,” he said into his com.
“Yes sir!” came the reply.
“Try to hurry up. I want to get out of here in five minutes.”
“Yes sir! Whatever you say, sir.”
Mengsk turned off the com, and added, “Yes, sir. That’s why I hired you.”
***
“The door’s sealed,” Calhoon said. “We can’t get in as long as your ship’s computer thinks there’s a reactor leak.”
Conrad wasn’t paying attention. “Help me here.” He was prying at a heavy plate fitting over the subfloor access tunnel with his knife.
“Move. This requires a woman’s touch.” Calhoon said. She stepped just inside the doorway back into the dropship, and opened the weapon locker.
She returned with a small disk shaped object, which she set on the plate.
“Now what?” Conrad asked.
“Run! Around the corner.”
They hurried and hid just around a bend in the corridor. Conrad pressed his back to the bulkhead, and started counting. When he reached twenty, he turned to Calhoon. “I think you forgot to—”
A deafening blast rocked the entire shipyard, pitching them both onto the deck.
“You were saying?” Calhoon gasped.
***
The explosion sent Mengsk sprawling on the deck. He pulled his communicator back out, and shouted into it. “Prepare to leave dock. I don’t care about the damn reactor. Fix it later. Just get us the hell out of here!”
Several officers had already hurried out of the ship, and were dragging Mengsk to his feet when a second explosion shook the station. The view of Shakuras shook and wobbled sickeningly. Mengsk fell again, and felt the unconscious weight of one of the officers fall on top of him. He was vaguely aware of the deck erupting just to his left.
From the smoking hole in the deck, two battered human forms climbed onto the intact portion of the deck, brandishing guns. The first figure pulled the conscious officer to his feet, and shot him execution style. The second fired through the temple of the officer laying on top of him. Mengsk had never been so close to such a brutal murder, and never realized the amount of blood involved. The air became thick with a pink mist, and the deck was so slick he couldn’t get to his feet.
“Emperor!” cried a voice from in the ship.
“General Calhoon! Intruders!” Mengsk called from his position on the floor.
“General Calhoon?” Conrad asked, risking a sideways glance at Admiral Calhoon.
The massive frame of General Calhoon seemed to materialize out of the haze, brandishing a gauss rifle. He waved the rifle at Conrad and Admiral Calhoon, and said, “I suggest you drop your weapons and surrender.” He waved behind him, and several more men emerged to drag Mengsk into the ship.
Conrad tossed his pistol onto the deck behind him. Calhood dropped hers at her feet. General Calhoon looked at it. “Kick it away, or I blow you away.”
“Go to hell, you son of a bitch,” she said.
The General was briefly taken aback. “Alia? I thoughy I got you all. Say hello to your mother.” He squeezed the trigger of his rifle, and ripped a short burst across her shoulder.
“Admiral!” Conrad yelled.
“Just stay where you are, boy. Or you’ll be closer to her than you ever wanted to,” said General Calhoon. He stepped back into the ship, and the doors slid shut behind him.
Conrad dove, and grabbed his gun. He tried to fire between the doors as they closed, but every shot he made struck their thick armor. “You son of a bitch! That’s my ship!” he yelled, “Come back here with my ship!” His last bullet pinged harmlessly off of the doors, and he flung the empty gun at them.
Calhoon had dragged herself to her feet, and watched this with dazed amusement. She hobbled over to him, put a blood soaked arm over his shoulders, and said, “John, They can’t hear you.”
“Who was that guy?”
“Long story.”
“That son of a bitch stole my ship!”
“I’ll give you another one,” she said, “Just calm down. I want them dead as much as you do.”
“You don’t understand!” Conrad said, turning to her, his eyes wide, “That’s not just another battlecruiser. If they get the chance to break the Macbeth down, then the Dominion will have Protoss shield, propulsion, and weapon technology. You’ll never have the opportunity to kill either of them.”
Calhoon felt her mouth go dry. “Then we’ll just have to get your ship back.”
“Or destroy it,” Conrad said, “Like you said, you can get me another one.”
Calhoon forced a smile, “I have a dropship that needs a pilot.”
