Shadow of the Xel'Naga, page 16
The Ghost stood at the ready in his polished Hostile Environment Suit, packing his long C-10 canister rifle. “I'm equipped with a personal cloaking device, sir. A Dropship can take me to the fringe of the battlefield, and I'll make my way in from there to paint a target.”
General Duke nodded, folding his hands over the mayor's now spotlessly clean desk. “Got a Battlecruiser in the high atmosphere, ready to deploy a full complement of warheads.”
Now Octavia raged at them both for the calm and dismissive manner in which they discussed destruction of such magnitude. “You can't nuke Bhekar Ro! It's our colony world. This is our home, where we've worked and sweated and—”
General Duke motioned for Marine guards to remove her from his office. Livid, Octavia thrashed and struggled. He looked at her with open disapproval.
“Would you rather have me lose the battle, Miz Brown?” he asked as if the answer were self-evident.
CHAPTER 38
FOR YEARS, THE DRIVING GOAL OF JUDICATOR Amdor had been to hunt down and capture one of the Dark Templar heretics. Their beliefs and practices were abhorrent to him, and the very knowledge of their shadowy existence, running and hiding throughout the Void, made him feel psychically ill.
For a loyal Judicator, this passion took precedence over discovering Xel'Naga artifacts. Amdor wanted to stamp out the traitors who had led so many other Protoss away from the psychic link of the Khala. The Protoss were already failures in the eyes of the Xel'Naga, but they had learned to cooperate, to draw their minds together in a graceful, flowing stream of thought that bound the race into a single unit.
Except for the members of the Dark Templar, rebels who insisted on being independent. They tried to draw Protoss minds away, weakening the Khala by destroying the unity of the First Born. With his every breath, Amdor felt the need to prevent such damage from continuing.
Now this loathsome female, Xerana, had willingly surrendered herself, appearing before them in the midst of their greatest battle. Amdor wished he had time to perform a full inquisition back aboard the Qel'Ha.
Even held captive, though, Xerana did not seem frightened. Instead, she produced images, hauling out blasphemous scrolls filled with archaic writing. “You must look at my proof,” she said, her thoughts directed toward Amdor and Executor Koronis with enough mental volume that all the others could hear her. She held up a tattered scrap of a recovered document. “See the evidence for yourselves. Before you do anything foolish, you must understand what the Xel'Naga have left behind on this world. Do not awaken the seed.”
Behind her, the curling porous walls of the luminous green object glowed brighter from the mountainside, as if some buried furnace were already heating up.
Amdor snatched the fragment out of her three-fingered hand and tore it to shreds. “We have no interest in your lies. I don't know what Dark Templar trick you're trying to employ. Are you calling other heretics here to help you use this great treasure in your efforts to destroy the Khala?”
Facing him squarely, Xerana gazed calmly at him. “The Dark Templar have no interest in destroying the Khala. That has never been the case. Nor have you ever been interested in understanding us. First the Judicators ordered the extermination of our tribe because we were an embarrassment to you. Then, when valiant Protoss refused to commit such genocide, you ordered us banished, to hide us from the rest of the First Born. You drove us all from our homes, yet here I am, risking myself to warn you of the folly of what you are doing.”
Xerana raised a hand to gesture toward the weird unburied object. “Do not enter this artifact. You fail to understand its nature. It is not what you think.”
Judicator Amdor just sneered. “More than anything else, you have just convinced me that I personally must go inside and investigate.” He shot a blazing-eyed glance over at Koronis. “Accompanied by the Executor, of course. We shall decide for ourselves what to do with this treasure and claim its mysteries for the good of the Khala—not for outcasts like yourself.”
Goaded by the fanatical Judicator's challenging look, Executor Koronis had no choice but to agree.
Her shoulders sagging, Xerana hung her head, knowing she had failed. She had not really expected a different outcome. She had been morally bound to deliver her warning, to do her best to avert the potential disaster.
“In the midst of this battle, the heretic is too dangerous to hold,” Amdor said. The Judicator called forth Zealots and Dragoons and had them prepare their weapons. “All Dark Templar have been already judged, their lives deemed forfeit. They have turned to the lure of the Void and ignored the call of the Khala.” He made a decisive gesture. “Execute this one while Executor Koronis and I enter the glorious artifact ourselves.”
He moved to stand beside Koronis. The huge glowing structure seemed to call out to them, luring them closer. In his heart, Amdor felt an urgent need to go deep within its passages and experience the awe and wonder for himself.
Xerana turned a look of profound disappointment on Koronis. “You understand so little, yet you command so much.”
Then, disgusted, she called upon the energies of the Void and freed herself. Using mysterious powers that she had developed during her own search through the wildness of space, Xerana reached into the all-connecting stream of Khala, the mental link that bound all Protoss into a harmonious unit with different personalities but one linked psyche. Not harming them—for no Dark Templar ever wished to hurt one of their fellow Protoss—Xerana erected temporary invisible dams in the stream of the Khala. She cut off the Executor, the Judicator, and all the nearby Protoss forces. Xerana knew how much chaos her efforts would cause.
Severed from their precious Khala network, the Protoss felt abandoned . . . alone . . . terrified. Some of the Zealots wailed in telepathic voices. The closest Dragoon staggered, unable to control his cyborg body anymore.
Judicator Amdor fell to his knees and raised clawed hands as if he could physically draw down threads of the Khala from the air. “I'm blind! I'm lost!”
Then, using the trick that had brought her into their midst, Xerana bent the shadows around her, folding light so that she vanished from view. In the ensuing confusion, she fled the battlefield, leaving her people to the fate dictated by their own misguided choices.
She had a long distance to run so that she wouldn't be trapped within the holocaust.
CHAPTER 39
THE TERRAN DROPSHIP FLEW LOW FROM THE BASE at the town of Free Haven and cruised over the barrier ridge. After dancing across the edge of the tumultuous battlefield, it paused just long enough, like a hummingbird dipping into nectar, then streaked away before the enemy alien forces could fire upon it.
It left a Ghost behind.
MacGregor Golding, wearing his special cloak-impregnated armor, touched lightly to the ground and raced along in a camouflage of wind and shadows. The fury and destruction of the Zerg and Protoss fighting forces kept the alien armies so occupied that Golding could have been carrying neon flags and they would have dismissed him.
The Ghost sprinted, his muscles pumped up by two full doses of Stimpacks he had secretly taken from Marine stores—much more than the recommended dosage, but it was well within the limits of what his tortured body had endured through years of training locked away in Confederacy isolation. MacGregor Golding's life had been shaped and pounded until he was a living, walking weapon, a psychic bomb who now fulfilled his life's purpose—his destiny.
If a weapon could have a destiny, that is.
As Golding traversed the edge of the battlefield, he saw the carnage that remained of the victims of Alpha Squadron. Siege Tanks lay blasted open, Marines and Firebats—or at least their body parts—lay strewn in the blood and mud of the valley floor among blackened craters and broken rocks.
Brooding knots of clouds thickened in the skies, providing cover from long-range aerial attacks. A storm would be building. The Ghost could see that. From his brief contact with the telepathically susceptible mind of Octavia Bren, Golding had stolen memories of Bhekar Ro's massive storms with their laser-lightning and sonic thunder. Not even the worst storm would wash away all the blood and carnage left here from the battle, though.
But MacGregor Golding's mission could wash it clean and sterilize the entire area.
All he had to do was call down a nuclear strike.
As he came closer to the large, ominous artifact— the focus of so much strife—the Ghost could feel the pounding, building call within his skull. Another gigantic telepathic presence, a powerful sleeping entity that seemed vast enough to overwhelm all of the puny life-forms that were fighting below it.
The Ghost didn't know what this thing was, and though his usual job was to gather intelligence and to infiltrate when necessary, that was not his mission now. General Duke had issued orders, and the Ghost wasn't required to understand, just to carry out the objective.
This artifact must be destroyed.
The concentrations of fighters and cloak-penetrating sensors near the cliffside forced MacGregor Golding to pause. They blocked his every line of approach. He saw a large caterpillarlike Reaver accompanied by an Observer overhead. Those Protoss devices could detect his presence and prevent him from coming closer. He shouldered his C-10 canister rifle, lightweight but bulky like a bazooka. Golding had prepared ahead, substituting some of the high-explosive rounds with special Lockdown rounds. He had a feeling they would prove extremely useful right now.
Still invisible, surrounded by the cloaking field that kept him free of casual observation, he chose his route carefully, gauging how fast he could run and what the clearest path would be. He would worry about a rapid retreat afterward. Then the Ghost lowered the canister rifle and launched his Lockdown round.
He watched the arcing plume of fire and smoke travel beyond the range of his personal cloaking field. Several of the Protoss and Zerg looked up, but it was too late. The Lockdown round detonated, spraying the area with a dampening field that disabled the nearest Reaver. The massive unit ground to a helpless halt, its weapons systems no longer functional, its powered hatches sealed so that the Protoss fighters inside could not boil out and fight hand to hand.
Moving fast now, he fired a second round, and the Observer overhead crashed, its sensors offline.
Knowing he was safe in his invisibility now, MacGregor Golding raced ahead through the chaos, dodging Zerg minions and angry Protoss. They could not see a Ghost.
At the sudden unexpected loss of Protoss mechanized firepower, Zerg minions surged forward, directed by Kukulkan Brood's Overlords to take advantage of the flaw in the Protoss defenses. MacGregor ran ahead, approaching the shimmering artifact, while behind him the vicious Hydralisks, Guardians, and Zerglings plunged into the Protoss with wild abandon.
Using the chaos to his benefit, intent only on his mission, on the pinnacle of his existence, the Ghost took up his position and powered up his special frequency-targeting laser.
Via an encoded communications link, he contacted General Duke. “All ready, sir. I'm in position. Preparing to paint the target now.”
“You may proceed, Golding. Good work,” the general said. “If you don't make it out in time, I'll see that you receive full commendations. Unfortunately, they'll have to be sealed in your classified personnel file.”
“Of course, General. I understand.”
Golding activated the laser and marked a target on the face of the giant artifact. The tactical nuclear warheads could come down with pinpoint accuracy, thanks to him. The objective was assured.
Overhead, one of Alpha Squadron's remaining Battlecruisers opened its weapons bay doors, ready to drop the atomic missiles.
MacGregor Golding was sitting right on ground zero, but he had a few seconds to get out of the way.
He started to run.
CHAPTER 40
OCTAVIA UNDERSTOOD THE STAKES WELL ENOUGH. A nuclear attack was imminent. And if the Terran military attacked the ancient alien artifact, the object itself would strike back. She had no way of knowing how many Terrans—and Protoss, for that matter—might die in the backlash. Octavia could not muster enough compassion to care whether the Zerg swarm was wiped out or not.
General Duke had treated her as if she were a hysterical child who did not know what she was dealing with. Octavia had to admit she didn't understand enough about the situation outside in the Terran Dominion, but in this case she did know more than General Duke.
Now that her efforts to persuade him to give up his ill-advised plan had failed, Octavia knew of only one place to turn. Taking a small field rover, she drove at top speed out to the ax-blade rock where she and the Dark Templar Xerana had first met. Leaving the rover behind, she scrambled up the rocky slope, calling out, “Xerana! Xerana!”
There was no answering voice, of course. The Dark Templar could not have known Octavia would come here to speak to her.
Still, when she concentrated she felt a presence at the back of her mind. Not Xerana, though. It was more like a kind of tension, a mixture of emotions she could not begin to comprehend, all rising in a wordless scream. She could tell something powerful was about to occur.
Desperate now, Octavia blocked all other thoughts from her mind and focused all her concentration on one word: Xerana!
She had no idea how long she stood there, the thought pulsing through her brain— Xerana! Xerana!—but suddenly the Dark Templar scholar was there. She looked ruffled and tired.
As soon as she saw the alien woman, Octavia blurted, “Xerana, I've failed. The military wouldn't listen. There's going to be an atomic explosion. You've got to stop it.”
I too have spoken with my people. They too have chosen not to listen.
A hot ball formed at the pit of Octavia's stomach. “But they could all die. You said so yourself. We've got to stop them.”
Ah. But we can only offer them our knowledge. We cannot make their choices for them. Their greed and prejudice have killed their common sense. What comes after . . . is of their own doing.
“But the Free Haven colonists shouldn't have to die because of someone else's stupidity,” Octavia said.
No. The Dark Templar closed her blazing gemfire eyes, as if she were concentrating on a single deep thought.
Just then, Octavia felt that other presence again at the back of her mind, wiping out all hope of other thought or discussion. She pressed her hands to her temples as the telepathic shout grew and grew.
They were already too late.
CHAPTER 41
WHEN THE DARK TEMPLAR VANISHED BEFORE HIS eyes—escaped!—Judicator Amdor was furious. He had lost the captive he had wanted tortured, interrogated, and then executed. All of the heretics must be made into examples for the rest of the Protoss race, to keep their faith in the Khala strong.
But Xerana had used foul Void powers, tapping into forbidden dark resources that were an affront to all loyal Zealots, Judicators, and High Templar. Amdor could not allow it to seem that she was stronger.
After the Dark Templar scholar fled, her mind-scrambling corruption had faded. But while mentally blinded, Amdor had never seen his rigorous followers so frightened or confused. Not even the Zerg attacks had caused as much disruption and dismay as being cut off from the gentle communal flow of the Khala.
He turned to Executor Koronis, whose thoughts were carefully masked. Amdor had the strange suspicion that the calm commander was as much amused by the Judicator's discomfiture as by the Dark Templar's escape.
Amdor made up his mind. “I will not allow this traitor and heretic to sway me from going inside the Xel'Naga treasure. Enough ground troops and survey teams—I will go myself. Your Dragoons never returned, nor did any of our Zealot scouts. The time has come to investigate this matter personally. Will you come with me?”
To his surprise, Koronis declined. “I wish I could accompany you, Judicator, but the requirements of strategy and military duty dictate that I stay here to direct our battle.”
Amdor looked at him for a moment, as if sneering, then accepted. “You are not worthy to walk in the shadow of the Xel'Naga. I will shoulder the responsibility for the enclave, and for the entire Protoss race.”
The proud Judicator climbed the slope, leaving Koronis behind to reorganize his troops and shore up a line of defense where a mysterious lockdown detonation had just wiped out all of the Protoss mechanized firepower. Zerg minions were flooding into the breach, pressing their advantage. Giving mental commands, Koronis ordered more Reavers to close the gap and a Carrier to strike from the sky with flying Interceptors. . . .
Judicator Amdor reached the opening of the artifact and sensed the pulsing presence inside growing stronger. The light increased, crackling like cold fire through the smooth translucent polymer of the labyrinthine walls. He could sense the influence of the Xel'Naga here, an intangible mark of the creator race. Amdor was certain this legacy was meant for him.
Their fruitless search, the long wanderings of the Qel'Ha had been a result of Executor Koronis's indecisiveness and lack of vision. When the expeditionary fleet returned to the ruins of Aiur, Amdor would bring hope and power to the Protoss race and the Conclave would reward him well.
Stepping into the tunnels, the Judicator walked quickly, choosing curves and following a golden path in his mind. He could tell where the core of this object lay, the center of its power. It seemed to call him, drawing him deeper inside, and he rushed to answer the summons. The entity would reveal everything he had ever wanted to know about the Xel'Naga.
Oddly, despite the throbbing pulse in his mind, Amdor found the artifact to be empty and silent, as if all the other infiltrators—the Protoss Zealots, Terran commandos, and Zerg invaders alike—had somehow gone away. But Amdor felt no threat in this, only a gladness that his way would not be hindered.
