CHAPTER 1

THE PRESS GANG

Before the war, things were different. Hell, back then, we were just making

our daily living, doing our jobs, drawing our paychecks, and stabbing our

fellow men and women in the back. We had no idea how bad things would get. We

were fat and happy like maggots on a dead animal. There was enough sporadic

violence -- rebellions and revolutions and balky colonial governments -- to

keep the military going, but not enough to really threaten the lifestyles we

had grown accustomed to. We were, in retrospect, fat and sassy.

And if a real war broke out, well, it was the military's worry. The marines'

worry. Not ours.

-- THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

The city sprawled beneath Mike's feet like an overturned bucket of jade

cockroaches. From the dizzying height of Handy Anderson's office, he could

almost see the horizon between the taller buildings. The city reached that far,

forming a jagged, spiked tear along the edge of the world.

The city of Tarsonis, on the planet Tarsonis. The most important city on the

most important planet of the Confederacy of Man. The city so great they named

it twice. The city so large its suburbs had greater populations than some

planets. A shining beacon of civilization, keeper of the memories of an Earth

now lost to history, myth, and earlier generations.

A sleeping dragon. And Michael Liberty could not resist twisting its tail.

"Come back from the edge there, Mickey," said Anderson. The editor-in-chief was

firmly ensconced at his desk, a desk as far away from the panoramic view as

possible.

Michael Liberty liked to think there was a note of concern in his boss's voice.

"Don't worry," said Mike. "I'm not thinking of jumping." He suppressed a smile.

Mike and the rest of the newsroom knew that the editor-in-chief was acrophobic

but could not bear to surrender his stratospheric office view. So on the rare

occasions when Liberty was summoned into his boss's office, he always stood

near the window. Most of the time he and the other drudges and news hacks

worked way down on the fourth floor or in the broadcast booths in the building's

basement.

"Jumping I'm not worried about," said Anderson. "Jumping I can handle. Jumping

would solve a lot of my problems and give me a lead for tomorrow's edition. I'm

more worried about some sniper taking you out from another building."

Liberty turned toward his boss. "Bloodstains that hard to get out of the

carpet?"

"Part of it," said Anderson, smiling. "It's also a bitch to replace the glass."

Liberty look one last look at the traffic crawling far below and returned to

the overstuffed chairs facing the desk. Anderson tried to be nonchalant, but

Mike noted that the editor let out a long, slow breath as Mike moved away from

the window.

Michael Liberty settled himself into one of Anderson's chairs. The chairs were

designed to look like normal furniture, but they were stuffed so that they sank

an extra inch or two when someone sat down. This made the balding editor-in-

chief with his comically oversized eyebrows look more imposing. Mike knew the

trick, was not impressed, and set his feet up on the desk.

"So what's the beef?" the reporter asked.

"Have a cigar, Mickey?" Anderson motioned with an open palm toward a teak

humidor.

Mike hated being called Mickey. He touched his empty shirt pocket, where he

normally stashed a pack of cigarettes. "I'm on the wagon. Trying to cut down."

"They're from beyond the Jaandaran embargo," said Anderson temptingly. "Rolled

on the thighs of cinnamon-shaded maidens."

Mike held up both hands and smiled broadly. Everyone knew that Anderson was too

cheap to get anything beyond the standardel roposmanufactured in some

bootleg basement. But the smile was intended to reassure.

"What's the beef?" Mike repeated.

"You've really done it this time," said Anderson, sighing. "Your series on the

construction kickbacks on the new Municipal Hall."

"Good stuff. The series should rattle a few cages."

"They've already been rattled," replied Anderson, his chin sinking down to touch

his chest. This was known as the bearer-of-bad-news position. It was something

that Anderson had learned at some management course but that made him look like

a mating ledge-pigeon.

Crap, thought Mike.He's going to spike the series.

As if reading his thoughts, Anderson said, "Don't worry, we're going to run the

rest of the series. It's solid reporting, well-documented, and best of all, it's

true. But you have to know you've made a few people very uncomfortable."

Mike mentally ran through the series. It had been one of his better ones, a

classic involving a petty offender who was caught in the wrong place (a public

park) at the wrong time (way after midnight) with the wrong thing (mildly

radioactive construction waste from the Municipal Hall project). Said offender

was more than willing to pass on the name of the man who sent him on this

late-night escapade. That individual was in turn willing to tell Mike about

some other interesting matters involving the new hall, and so forth, until Mike

had, instead of a single story, a whole series about a huge network of graft

and corruption that the Universe Network News audience ate up with their

collective spoons.

Mike mentally ran through the ward heelers, low-level thugs, and members of the

Tarsonis City Council that he had skewered in print, discarding each in turn as

a suspect. Any of those august individuals might want to take a shot at him,

but such a threat wasn't enough to make Handy Anderson nervous.

The editor-in-chief saw Mike's blank expression and added, "You've made a few

powerful, venerable people very uncomfortable."

Mike's left eyebrow rose. Anderson was talking about one of the ruling Families,

the power behind the Confederacy for most of its existence, since those early

days when the first colony ships (hell, prison ships) landed and/or crashed on

various planets in the sector. Somewhere in his reporting, he had nailed

somebody with pull, or perhaps somebody close enough to one of the Families to

make the old venerables nervous.

Mike resolved to go back over his notes and see what kind of linkages he could

make. Perhaps a distaff cousin to one of the Old Families, or a black sheep,

or maybe even a direct kickback. God knew that the Old Families ran things from

behind the scenes since the year naught. If he could nail one of them...

Mike wondered if he was visibly salivating at the prospect.

In the meantime Handy Anderson had risen from his seat and strolled around the

side of his desk, perching on the corner nearest Mike. (Another move directly

out of the management lectures, Mike realized. Hell, Anderson had assigned him

to cover those lectures once.) "Mike, I want you to know you're on dangerous

ground here."

Oh God, he called me Mike, thought Liberty.Next he'll be looking

plaintively out the window as if lost in thought, wrestling with a momentous

decision.

He said, "I'm used to dangerous ground, boss."

"I know, I know. I just worry about those around you. Your sources. Your

friends. Your co-workers..."

"Not to mention my superiors."

"...all of whom would be heartbroken if something horrible happened to you."

"Particularly if they were standing nearby when it happened," added the

reporter.

Anderson shrugged and stared plaintively out the full-length window. Mike

realized that whatever Anderson was afraid of, it was worse than his fear of

heights. And this was a man who, if office rumor was correct (and it was),

kept a locked room in the subbasement that contained dirt on most of the

celebrities and important citizens of the city.

The pause dragged beyond a moment into a minute. Finally Mike broke. He gave a

polite cough and said, "So you have an idea how to handle this 'dangerous

ground'?"

Handy Anderson nodded slowly. "I want to print the series. It's good work."

"But you don't want me anywhere in the immediate vicinity when the next part of

that story hits the street."

"I'm thinking of your own safety, Mickey, it's..."

"Dangerous ground," finished Mike. "I heard. Here be dragons. Perhaps it would

be time for an extended vacation? Maybe a cabin in the mountains?"

"I was thinking more of a special assignment."

Of course, thought Mike.That way I won't have the chance to figure

out whose tail I've inadvertently twisted. And give those involved time to

cover their tracks.

"Another part of the Universe News Network empire?" Mike said with a broad

smile, at the same time wondering what godforsaken colony world he would be

doing agricultural reports from.

"More of a roving reporter," teased Anderson.

"How roving?" Mike's smile suddenly became flinty and brittle. "Will I need

shots for off-planet?"

"Better than getting shot for being on-planet. Sorry, bad joke. The answer is

yes, I'm thinking definitely off-planet."

"Come on, spill. Which hellhole do you want to hide me in?"

"I was thinking of the Confederate Marines. As a military reporter, of course."

"What!"

"It would be a temporary posting, of course," continued the editor.

"Are you out of yourmind?"

"Sort of 'our fighting men in space,' battling against the various forces of

rebellion that threaten our great Confederacy. There are rumors that Arcturus

Mengsk is rallying more support in the Fringe Worlds. Could turn really hot at

any moment."

"The marines?" sputtered Mike. "The Confederate Marines are the biggest

collection of criminals in the known universe, outside of the Tarsonis City

Council."

"Mike, please. Everyone hassomecriminal blood in them. Hell, all the

planets of the Confederacy were settled by exiled convicts."

"Yeah, but most people like to think we grew out of that. The marines still

make that one of their basic recruiting requirements. Hell, do you know how

many of them have been brain-panned?"

"Neurally Resocialized," corrected Anderson. "No more than fifty percent per

unit these days, I understand. Less in some places. And the resocialization is

more often done with noninvasive procedures. You probably won't notice."

"Yeah, and they pump them so full of stimpacks they'd kill their own grandpas

on the right command."

"Exactly the sort of common misconception that your work can counter," said

Anderson, both eyebrows raised in practiced sincerity.

"Look, most of the politicos I've met are naturally nuts. The marines are nuts

andthenthey started messing with their heads. No. The marines are not

an option."

"It'd make for some good stories. You'd probably get some good contacts."

"No."

"Reporters with experience with the military get perks," said the editor-in-

chief. "You get a green tag on your file, and that carries weight with the more

venerable families of Tarsonis. In some cases even forgiveness."

"Sorry. Not interested."

"I'll give you your own column."

A pause. Finally Mike said, "How big a column?"

"Full column-page print, or five minutes stand-up for the broadcast. Under your

byline, of course."

"Regular?"

"You file, I'll fill."

Another pause. "A raise with that?"

Anderson named a figure, and Mike nodded.

"That's impressive," he said.

"Not chump change," agreed the editor-in-chief.

"I'm a little old to be planet-hopping."

"There's no real danger. And if something does flare up, there's combat pay.

Automatic."

"Fifty percent brain-panned?" Mike asked.

"If that."

Another pause. Then Mike said, "Well, it sounds like a challenge."

"And you're just the man for a challenge."

"And it can't be worse than covering the Tarsonis City Council," Mike mused,

feeling himself sliding down the slippery slope to acceptance.

"My thoughts exactly," his editor agreed.

"And if it would help the network..." Yep, Mike thought, he was on the edge,

poised to pitch over into the void.

"You would be a shining light to us all," said Anderson. "A well-paid, shining

light. Wave the flag a little, get some personal stories, ride around in a

battlecruiser, play some cards. Don't worry about us back here at the office."

"Cush posting?"

"Cushiest. I've got some pull, you know. Was an old green-tag myself. Three

months' work, tops. A lifetime of rewards."

There was a final pause, a chasm as deep as the concrete canyon that yawned

beyond the window.

"All right," said Mike, "I'll do it."

"Wonderful!" Anderson reached for the humidor, then caught himself and instead

offered Mike his hand. "You won't regret it."

"Why do I feel that I already do?" Michael Liberty asked in a small voice as

the editor's meaty, sweaty hand ensnared his own.

© 2007 Blizzard Entertainment

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Excerpted from The Starcraft Archive by Jeff Grubb, Gabriel Mesta, Tracy Hickman, Micky Neilson
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.