Graham McNeill: I, Mengsk

"Clear now," said Delor as the sound of gunfire intensified.

Arcturus could make no sense of this. All he could hear was a meaningless cacophony of cries for cover, medical attention, or mothers.

Who was winning this fight? Did anyone know?

"Now!" shouted Feld. "Let's go!"

Feld was first out of the room, his pistol extended, as Delor hustled Katherine—still with Dorothy clutched to her chest—Ailin Pasteur, and Juliana through the door. Lastly came Arcturus, and Delor remained with him as they sped along the corridor toward the refuge.

Smoke from the gunfire filled the hallway and Arcturus could see little beyond the floor in the dim glow of sputtering lights that had been shot out. He passed a bulky shape lying on the ground, a body with a bullet wound in the neck.

Blood squirted onto the floor from the ragged crater in the man's throat and Arcturus gagged at the horrid, burned-metallic smell of the man's death. Another man's body lay farther along the corridor, this one with his chest torn apart by Impaler spikes. It looked like he'd been sawn in two.

Delor kept watch on their rear as Feld haltingly led the way to the refuge, a fortified bolt hole constructed in the heart of the house with comm systems capable of reaching Korhal's orbitals and enough supplies lo last four days.

Arcturus's mother had objected to the idea of installing such an ugly thing in her summerhouse, but had reluctantly consented to its construction after a crazed psychopath had murdered Senator Nikkos and his family in their beds a few years ago.

A crazed psychopath who was probably now a neurally resoclallzed Confederate marine.

Arcturus stumbled, but Delor held him upright.

The refuge was up ahead, its neosteel door open and a cold fluorescent light spilling from inside. The wounded Achton Feld lay slumped in the doorway, his face ashen as he tried to hold his slugthrower level.

Shouts sounded behind Arcturus, urgent and demanding.

Jaq Delor released him and spun around, dropping lo one knee and bringing his rifle up. The barrel exploded with noise and light, and Arcturus cried out at the unimaginable volume of the weapon. Gauss spikes roared from the barrel and more screams of pain followed.

"Go!" shouted Delor.

No sooner had he given this last instruction than Jaq Delor was struck by a burst of Impaler fire.

It was as if a giant fist had hammered into his side and hurled him against the wall. Blood spattered Arcturus, and he watched in horror as Delor's head lolled down over his chest, almost severed by the impact of the Impaler spikes.

"Arcturus!' screamed his mother from the refuge, but her voice seemed tinny and indistinct. All he could hear was the last rasp of Delor's breath and the sound of his blood as it sprayed from his ruined neck.

Without conscious thought, Arcturus knelt down and lifted Delor's fallen rifle. He'd never fired such a weapon before, but figured all you needed to do was point it at what you wanted to kill and pull the trigger.

How hard could it be?

A shape resolved itself from the smoke of the corridor, a gunman dressed in dark fatigues, body armor, and a strange helmet. It had a number of projecting attachments jutting from the side and a matte black visor, upon which Arcturus could see his own face reflected.

The rifle was a dead weight in his hands, but he raised it without conscious thought. The gunman already had his rifle aimed, and Arcturus knew he would not be able to pull the trigger before he was torn apart.

The thought made him more angry than fearful.

Before the gunman could fire, Arcturus's reflection in the helmet's visor exploded in a mist of Plexiglas fragments, bone, and brain matter.

Another shot struck the gunman's helmet, then another and another. The man dropped to his knees as high-velocity slugs tore into his chest and legs.

Arcturus turned and saw his mother marching toward him, Achton Feld's slugthrower held out before her in both hands. With her long black hair unbound and her nightdress flaring behind her like a cloak, she looked like some warrior woman from the old myth stories.

The gun boomed in her grip and she never once broke step as she fired.

Arcturus watched the gunman die and dropped the gauss rifle as his mother's hand clamped on his shoulder. He looked up and saw that her face was thunderous with anger— not at Arcturus, but at the man who had dared threaten one of her children.

Katherine pulled Arcturus to his feet and all but dragged him into the refuge. With help from Ailin Pasteur, she hauled the heavy door of the refuge shut, then punched in the locking code to a keypad set into the wall. Arcturus took heaving gulps of clean, recycled air, feeling his hands shaking at how close he'd come to death. He clenched his fists, angry at such a display of weakness and fought down his fear through sheer force of will.

In control of himself once more, he look stock of his surroundings.

Achton Feld lay slumped against one wall, his chest and shoulder a mass of sticky red fluid, but Arcturus couldn't tell whether he was alive or dead. Juliana Pasteur sat against the opposite wall of the refuge, holding Dorothy tight, and Arcturus went to them. He stroked his sister's hair and smiled reassuringly at Juliana.

"Little Dot," said Arcturus. "It's me. We're safe now."

Dorothy looked up and Arcturus smiled, putting every ounce of sincerity into his words. "You were very brave, little one. No one is going to hurt us now."

"We're safe?" said Dorothy, between snotty exhalations. "You promise?"

"I promise," said Arcyurus, nodding. "I won't let anything happen to you. Ever."

"Never ever?"

"Never ever," promised Arcturus.

With the door to the refuge sealed, there was nothing to do but wait, and waiting was something Arcturus Mengsk wasn't particularly good at. He sat on a fold-down cot bed with his legs crossed and Dorothy's head resting on his thigh, her thumb jammed in her mouth and a stuffed pony named Pontius clutched tightly beneath one arm.

Despite all that had happened, she had fallen into a deep sleep, and Arcturus smiled as he ran a hand through her dark hair.

As it turned out, Achton Feld was still alive, and Arcturus's mother was doing her best to treat the Impaler wounds in his shoulder. With the practical mind-set that had made her such a formidable matriarch of the Mengsk family, Katherine set about assigning them all tasks, as much to keep their minds busy as to actually achieve anything useful.

Arcturus was told to look after Juliana and Dorothy, while Ailin Pasteur was ordered to keep watch on the vidcams to get a better idea of what was happening beyond the refuge. The Umojan ambassador nodded, taking a seal by the wall of monitors that displayed a multitude of images of both the exterior and interior of the Mengsk summer villa.

Arcturus wasn't surprised that his mother had taken charge, or that Pasteur had so readily acquiesced to her, for Katherine Mengsk had an aura that conveyed absolute authority, confidence, and credibility. Even at seventeen, Arcturus was old enough to appreciate his mother's strength of character and knew that his father had learned, over the years, not to underestimate her.

Without looking up from Achton Feld's wound, Katherine said. "Ailin, what's going on out there? Can you see Angus?"

Arcturus watched as Pasteur scanned the images before him—empty corridors, dead bodies, and black-clad figures dashing furtively from cover to cover. But the ambassador couldn't tell whether the figures were the attackers or Angus's security forces.

Some of the cameras had been disabled, the screens displaying a hash of static, so that it was impossible to tell exactly what was happening.

"There's still men with guns on the ground floor, but I can't see Angus, no."