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POCKET STAR BOOKS
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POCKET STAR BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2007 Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved.
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ISBN-10: 1-4165-6057-2
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This book is dedicated
to Marco Palmieri and Chris Metzen,
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Prologue
TIME WAS NOT LINEAR. FAR, FAR FROM IT.
Time wrapped in on itself, converged and entwined
and embraced events and feelings and moments, then
danced away into separate gleaming, shining, pre-
cious strands that stood alone and resonant before
merging again into the vast stream.
The Preserver rested and dreamed, and time wove
itself in and around and through her. Memories flut-
tered through her mind like gossamer-winged insects:
a word that shattered centuries, a thought that
changed the course of a civilization. Individuals
whose insights and aspirations and even greed and
fear turned seemingly inalterable tides of destiny into
something new and fresh and hitherto inconceivable.
Moments where everything teetered precariously on
a crumbling brink, where something as intangible as
an idea would send everything hurtling into oblivion
or pull it back to safe, solid ground.
Each thought, word, deed, life was a mere drop in
2 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
the vast ocean of time, constantly merging and sepa-
rating to merge again. The concept would challenge
some minds, the Preserver knew; but her mind had
been destined to hold such contradictions as things
being separate and having no separate identity.
Grasping such elusive concepts was what she was
born for.
Over all these thoughts of words and lives and
ideas floated a terrible urgency and fear. Time was not
linear; time was shifting and changing. But there were
patterns that floated to the surface, their interwoven
strands so clear and strong that even the dimmest
minds could grasp them. Inevitability? Perhaps.
Perhaps not. Again and again the pattern appeared in
the swirling waters of time and destiny and luck, sub-
merging and manifesting with a cold precision that
made even the Preserver quail.
All the knowledge she held was precious; every
memory, every sound, scent, sensation, voice, word,
thought. All were vital to her people.
But this knowledge, of the pattern that had hap-
pened so often before and was about to happen
again—ah, this was what made the Preserver more
than important to her people.
It was what made her indispensable.
She opened to what was out there, every second
that ticked by in its nonlinear, unique majesty chal-
lenging her to close in on herself, to not expose her-
self to the pain of the debris caught in the swollen
river.
F I R S T B O R N 3
She could not allow herself such luxuries.
Not when the horrific knowledge of what had
come before, and what was certain to come again,
polluted the waters of time in her psyche.
She summoned her energy, and sent forth the cry.
Chapter 1
IF THERE WAS A GOD, JACOB JEFFERSON RAMSEY
had never seen Him, and was somewhat dubious as to
His existence. But Jacob Jefferson Ramsey knew there
was a Satan. Because most certainly there was a Hell,
and it was called Gelgaris.
A few years ago, archeology was a rather musty
but respected profession, rather like an old, leather-
bound encyclopedia one dusted off from time to time
with embarrassed pride. The Confederacy had allot-
ted grants on a stingy but regular basis, and Jake
Ramsey, a rather musty but respected archeologist,
had been awarded a decent share of them. Over the
years, he’d sat happily in sand, whistled while slog-
ging through mud, and cracked weak jokes while
encased in a protective environmental suit in places
that had no atmosphere. He’d been sunburned,
windburned, and just plain burned; frozen, frostbit-
ten and critter-bitten. He had weathered all difficul-
ties with a cheery optimism that often annoyed his
6 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
teams as much as it inspired them—frankly, probably
more.
But this place . . .
Jake and his team had been stuck out here on a
place that Darius Grayson ineloquently but nonethe-
less aptly described as a pimple on the butt of the uni-
verse. For two years with little funding, fewer
supplies, and tempers that grew shorter by the day,
the thirty-two archeologists and one originally perky
and now sullen intern had labored on this rock with
little to show for it.
That, Jake was convinced, was why he hated this
place so much. Surely it was that and not the subzero
temperatures at night and the blood-boilingly hot
temperatures during the day. It was that, and not the
practically microscopic insects that managed to find
every crevice in one’s body and set up housekeeping
therein.
Yes, Jake told himself, that’s why this place is hell.
The ceaseless wind buffeted him as he grimly made
his way from the rockcrawler, a functional but bare-
bones vehicle, back to the tiny shelter that served as
his living quarters and communications center. It was
only a few meters but that short walk, whether it was
freezing as now or blazingly hot as at noon, always
felt as though it was ten kilometers. He staggered and
swayed in the vicious wind like a drunken man, keep-
ing his goggled eyes fastened on the image of the shel-
ter growing infinitesimally closer. They donned the
suits about three hours before sunset, when the tem-
F I R S T B O R N 7
perature plummeted faster than their spirits, and Jake
was convinced the suits were faulty. Every damn last
one of them. Because he sure as hell always felt cold
in them. There was a brief period of about ten min-
utes twice a day when he felt neither too cold nor too
hot, and Jake found that he lived for those moments.
The wind howled like . . . like something that
howled. He was so tired that he couldn’t even grasp a
simile. He extended a gloved hand and finally—
finally—touched the door, turned his body to block
the wind as much as he could to prevent his fingers
from wavering, and attempted to punch in the key
code. He couldn’t see the pad; there was too much
frost on his goggles. They were just as faulty as the
suits. Muttering, he removed them, squinted against
the cold and wind, entered the code, and shut the
door on another frigid night.
The glare of the lights, which had come on auto-
matically when the door opened, was painful after the
darkness of the Gelgaris night. Jake narrowed his eyes
for a moment and dropped his gloves on the floor as
he moved into the shelter’s warmth. He blinked.
“Ah, crap.”
One of the tiny, glowing blue decipedes (he often
wondered how they survived when nothing else
could, but that was a question for an entomologist)
had crawled its ten-legged way into his eye seeking
warmth—again—and he took a moment to dig it out
and squish it between callused fingers before he
decided to depress himself even further and see if
8 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
there were any messages. Usually there weren’t. Jake
had had few enough people he called friends before
the zerg devoured Mar Sara and the protoss came to
finish the job. Now, he expected nothing. But some of
his crew still had family they kept in touch with.
Jake had noticed, though, that as time passed,
everyone on his team got fewer messages.
He trudged over to the vidsys, an out-of-date tan-
gle of dinged metal, wires, and lights, divesting him-
self of the frost-covered protective armoring that
encased his body as he went and running fingers
through his sandy brown hair before realizing they
still had luminescent bug guts on them. Ah well,
nothing the sonic cleanser couldn’t blast off, along
with a few layers of skin Jake supposed he didn’t
really need.
A red light was flashing on the console.
Jake blinked his blue eyes, not sure if the flashing
red was real or a pleasant hallucination caused by the
late, unlamented decipede.
No, it was there, blinking cheerily as if it were on a
Christmas tree back in one of the better neighbor-
hoods of Tarsonis, back when there was a Tarsonis. . . .
Worry flooded him. The last time they had had a
message, Leslie Crane’s mother had died of a massive
stroke. Leslie, of course, had been unable to travel
back to pay her final respects, or be with her shattered
father; the ferry ship wouldn’t return for them for
another eight months.
Jake took a deep breath and steeled himself for the
F I R S T B O R N 9
worst. Then, he punched the annoyingly bright red
light.
The Dominion insignia flashed on the screen and
Jake raised an eyebrow in surprise. Ever since they’d
had their butts handed to them on a platter, the
Terran Dominion had been somewhat less than domi-
nating. He’d heard that Mengsk had been busying
himself with rebuilding, and clearly the insignia on
the screen was evidence that they’d done so to the
point where they could send out official messages.
But why the hell would anyone in the Dominion
want to send a message to Jake Ramsey or anyone on
his team?
The screen went dark for a moment, then the vis-
age of a young man appeared. Blond hair curled over
the top of the high collar of a military uniform. It was
past regulation length, marking the youth as either a
military poser or an exception to the rules. Steely gray
eyes, elegant features, and a calm bearing mitigated
looks that made the young man almost too pretty to
be called “handsome.” Jake grimaced, bracing himself.
Anybody looked that good, he was going to be full of
himself.
“Good day, Professor Ramsey,” the young man said
in a rich, smooth voice. “My face may be unfamiliar to
you, but my name will not be. I am Valerian Mengsk,
son of our glorious Emperor Arcturus.”
Jake’s eyebrows reached for his hairline. Mengsk
had a son? He thought of what he’d seen of Mengsk
on the holos. Mengsk didn’t have this boy’s physical
10 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
perfection, but Jake recognized the poised, polished
demeanor. Apparently the fruit didn’t fall far from the
tree. Exception to the rule then, not military poser.
Valerian smiled. “I’m sure you’re surprised to hear
this, as my father has made no public announcement.
For the time being, I don’t really exist . . . though I
assure you I do, and the funds and supplies and
opportunity I’m about to offer you are equally sub-
stantial. I suppose you are wondering why I am con-
tacting you today.”
“Yeah,” Jake drawled, as if he were actually talking
to the impossibly perfect boy instead of listening to a
prerecorded message. “The thought had crossed my
mind.”
The door opened and a blast of icy air swept in. A
harsh male voice uttered an oath as its owner tripped
over Jake’s discarded gear.
“Damn it, Jake,” came an annoyed female voice,
“will you quit leaving your stuff all over the floor!”
Jake didn’t take his eyes from the vidscreen, but
beckoned to Darius and Kendra Massa, who hurried
over to watch with him.
“You and I share a great passion,” Valerian contin-
ued.
Kendra, who was all of twenty-four and who often
lamented the lack of attractive men on the digs,
chuckled.
“I’d like to share some passion with him,” she said.
“Who is this guy, Prof?”
“Valerian Mengsk,” Jake said. “Arcturus’s boy.”
F I R S T B O R N 11
“You’re shitting me,” Darius said with his usual
eloquence. Jake shushed them both.
“We have a passion for the works of the past,”
Valerian said, pronouncing the word “past” as “pahst.”
Somehow, the affectation suited him. “For the evi-
dence left behind of civilizations long forgotten and
lost to time and wind and dirt. For structures
unearthed, and treasures—not chests of gold of yore,
but real, true treasures of knowledge—recovered. My
father has not been idle during recent months. We are
rebuilding the Dominion, and both he and I have
vowed that it will not be simply a rule of might, but
one of art and sciences as well.”
Darius made a comment that made even Jake, who
had known the other man for ten years, blush.
“Shut up, Darius,” Jake muttered. Something
inside him was stirring, something he thought had
been killed and buried long ago, squashed as thor-
oughly as he had squashed the decipede. Was it hope?
Valerian’s intense gray gaze bored into his, as if they
were in truth regarding one another. He realized that
his heart was beating rapidly in anticipation of
Valerian’s next words.
“Not so long ago, a strange construction—com-
pletely different from anything we’ve ever seen
before—was discovered on the planet Bhekar Ro. I’m
sure the incident is familiar to you.”
Indeed it was. They had heard about it even in this
godforsaken hellhole. A fierce storm had unearthed a
building—if you could call it that—that no one could
12 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
get their heads around. When a kid had accidentally
activated something deep inside the artifact, it had
sent out a signal heard by all three sentient races. A
dreadful battle had ensued, with terran, protoss, and
zerg all coveting the glorious, beautiful thing for
themselves.
The kicker that no one had foreseen came when a
completely new life-form exploded out of the con-
struct. It was a sort of . . . energy creature that had
absorbed zerg and protoss, but for some reason
unknown to anyone had expelled humans alive and
well. Many a night Jake had lain awake pondering
this, wishing he knew more. He’d developed a theory.
Published papers on it. Thought not-very-nice things
as he heard rumors that more and more archeologists
other than himself were discovering more artifacts
that were neither protoss nor zerg, but something
new, something other, something . . .
Jake blinked, coming back to the present as he
realized that Valerian was still speaking. He’d have to
watch the message again; he was sure he’d missed
some of it in his shocked reverie.
“It has come to my father’s attention that more
artifacts are being reported. We cannot say for certain
why, at this time, the artifacts are coming to the sur-
face, only that they are. He in his wisdom has decided
that they should all be explored, and knowing my
great love of archeology he has placed me in charge of
this program.”
“Heh,” muttered Darius. “Great love of archeol-
F I R S T B O R N 13
ogy—right. Bet he’s never squatted in sand up to his
ass trying to—”
“Shut up!” Jake snapped. It was definitely awaken-
ing inside him, like the strange creature that had
sucked up zerg and protoss—this thing called hope—
and it was almost painful. Like a frozen limb coming
to aching life.
“Because this is so important to us, I can offer you
things that you haven’t had in some time, I expect.
Full funding. The latest equipment and technology.
And because this is so important, you should know
that I have spent some time reviewing various lists of
names that have crossed my desk,” Valerian said. He
let his lips curve into a slight smile as he spoke. “Your
work on the Pegasus dig has not been forgotten, Dr.
Ramsey. If you are interested, I would like to make
you part of this team.”
Darius clapped Jake on the back, and Jake permit-
ted himself a smile. He’d been awfully proud of what
he and his team had accomplished on Pegasus. Pity no
one on any important awards committee had been
able to appreciate the significance of what he’d done.
Valerian leaned forward and spoke with quiet
urgency. “I would like you to join me in uncovering
the secrets of this third alien race. What we learn
could help all humanity, Dr. Ramsey.”
“It’d certainly help us,” Kendra said in a low voice.
She was staring at the vidscreen now with all traces of
playful lust gone, her brown eyes wide with the same
emotion that was now surging through Jake. “Full
14 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
funding. . . . My God, you think that means working
plumbing?”
Jake barely heard her. Valerian was finishing up. “If
you wish to join me, then contact me at once. I hope
you do. There is a code at the end of this message;
please enter it if you would like to accompany me on
this glorious adventure. A final word of caution: Since
I am not operating in an official capacity, please tell no
one outside of your team about the nature of your
benefactor. I’ll remain an anonymous donor. Even the
people you will be interacting with know me only as
Mr. V . . . someone who has the ear of the emperor.”
He smiled gently. “I suggest you hurry. Should you
decline, there are many, many more who would be
more than happy to take your place.”
The screen went black. For a long moment, Jake
Ramsey stared at it, seeing in his mind not the shiny
black screen but an image of a towering alien temple
that had been discovered on Bhekar Ro.
The whole thing had been dreadfully botched from
an archeological standpoint. Hell, it had been botched
from anybody’s standpoint. All three races, battling it
out bloodily in the skies and on the ground. All the
zerg and protoss on the planet taken; most of the ter-
ran ships destroyed. It had been months before any-
one had thought to go look for them.
The knowledge that had been lost! It made Jake
sick. Very little concrete information had survived.
The achingly beautiful construct that had housed the
creature had been pulverized. All its secrets had been
F I R S T B O R N 15
lost with it. The marines barreling in had had orders
to take or destroy the construct, not to inspect or ana-
lyze it. Hell, they’d even tried to nuke it, only to see
the thing devour their energy like candy. As a result,
there had been few holograms made and little data
taken.
Just enough to be an archeologist’s wet dream.
Curving walls made of a material no one had ever
seen before. Gems and colors and swirls and textures.
Ancient, no doubt, but looking as fresh as if it had
been crafted the day before.
So many questions. Would the military be
involved? Who would get final say over the project?
How was it being funded, and did anyone have any
special interests?
“Jake?” Darius’s booming voice actually made Jake
jump. “You going to respond to the man or stand
there staring? And wipe the drool off your face.”
Jake’s hand automatically went to his mouth, and
Darius laughed uproariously. Kendra grinned. Jake
blushed and smiled. He wouldn’t have been surprised
to learn that he had been drooling.
He took a deep breath, entered the code, and began
the journey.
Chapter 2
VALERIAN MENGSK, TWENTY-TWO, BEAUTIFUL, AND
brilliant, and, he mused, likely a bit arrogant for know-
ing it, settled easily into the en garde position. Bare
feet were steady on the wooden floor; his body, tall
and lithe, was draped in the traditional fighting gar-
ments of the keikogi and hakama. He grasped the hilt
of the four-hundred-year-old sword with a familiarity
born of years of practice. The weapon, elegant and
beautiful and deadly, was like an extension of himself.
Valerian had ceased long ago to think of it as anything
else.
Candlelight glittered off the bright blade. In the
background, soft music played and the fragrant wood
in two large fireplaces crackled as it burned. Valerian
held perfectly still in what was known as the horse
stance, muscles coiled in preparation for movement,
holding the position with the patience of the predator,
the tip of the sword held at an imaginary opponent’s
throat.
F I R S T B O R N 17
With not a twitch to telegraph his movements, he
exploded into action.
Valerian moved through the elaborate, graceful
poses of the forms with speed and precision. Block,
strike, whirl, slice, duck, roll, leap, and again and
again, the blade making a sharp sound as it cut air, his
breathing coming more quickly with exertion but still
regular and steady.
Finishing, he flicked fictitious blood and gore from
the blade with a quick, almost arrogant gesture,
whirled it over his head, and inserted it into its scab-
bard. And then, he was motionless as a statue again,
his breathing under absolute control so that no adver-
sary would sense that weak moment of inhalation.
Sweat gleamed on his brow, catching the firelight as
his sword had moments earlier.
He executed a formal bow, and it was over.
Valerian returned the sheathed sword to its stand.
He turned to the small table set with old bottles and
glasses and made his selection. The port was old, and
so was the decanter that contained the brown liquid
and the small glass into which he poured it. Both
suited him.
He held up the port, examined it as the liquid
caught the light, inhaled its fragrance, and took a sip.
His father liked ruby ports; Valerian preferred tawny.
It was one small way that Valerian could continue to
separate himself, at least in his own mind, from the
towering presence of his father. He supposed his
rebelliousness was not unique. The children of all
18 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
great individuals constantly strove to step out of the
shadow of their parent. Some of them failed, becom-
ing names that were remembered only as bits of
trivia, swallowed by history as their unique light and
gifts were swallowed by their parent’s legacy.
Valerian vowed that would not be his fate.
He took another sip, the syrupy liquid coating his
tongue and slipping easily down his throat, and
touched a few gently glowing buttons on the wall. A
large section of the paneled wall rolled upward and a
sleek black platform rolled out. Valerian sank down
into a soft leather chair and settled in to watch.
Three-dimensional images came to erratic life on
the platform. He had seen this at least a hundred
times, and that was a conservative guess. He knew
every badly lit shot, every awkward angle, every jerky
close-up. Playing before him now was all of the docu-
mentation anyone had of the alien creation of mad-
deningly unknown origin.
The light from the moving images flickered on his
face. He watched intently, recalling the first time he
had seen this. The sounds of men, protoss, and zerg
screaming in agony and gasping their last breaths had
bothered him not in the slightest. He had eyes only
for the artifact, and the hunger within him could not
be sated by these imperfect images. Valerian was like a
starving man being passed a cracker and a cup of
water. All it did was make him crave more.
Valerian had always been fascinated with ancient
civilizations. When he was very little, he would go
F I R S T B O R N 19
outside to play—with two soldiers toting weapons as
escort—and dig for relics in the dirt. Every time he
would occasionally stumble across something odd, he
would carefully “excavate” until his bemused mother
had quite the collection of strange-shaped rocks, fos-
silized wood, and the shells of small creatures.
Arcturus—when Valerian had actually seen the
“great man,” which had been exactly twice until
recently—had belittled him and told his mother that
she was raising a bookish, effeminate weakling. As he
matured, Valerian had been able to prove, even to his
skeptical father, that while he might indeed be book-
ish, he was not effeminate and was no weakling.
Starting at age eight, Valerian had had trainers in
weapons both ancient and contemporary. He was a
master swordsman and martial artist, and moved eas-
ily and effectively in full combat gear with a gauss
rifle.
Cultures that blended war with art were his
favorite. Valerian’s great passion was for ancient
weapons. He liked them because they were beautiful,
carefully crafted, and old; Arcturus approved of the
collections because they were things that could kill
people. It was a place where the two men could hap-
pily meet and agree on something, and consequently,
it was the focus of most of their conversations.
In the time since Arcturus had decided that it was
safe to bring his son and heir off a backwater planet,
the two had spent more time together than they had
in Valerian’s entire life. It was an uneasy alliance; two
20 C H R I S T I E G O L D E N
such different personalities would never get along
smoothly. But they shared the common goal of devel-
oping an empire again and its eventually being
handed over to Valerian, so peace was largely main |
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