Eye of the Storm [Complete]

[Jim Raynor]

Jim flicked the air-conditioner dial, hoping that with enough clicks, cool air would issue forth. No such luck. He slumped back into the car seat, arm resting on the open window, grateful for the warm wind that dashed over him if only that it disturbed his skin long enough to stop sweating. Cresting a dune, the aged motor growled. Raynor pressed the pedal flat to the floor, praying that the old relic wouldn't conk out here in the middle of the desert. The front wheels climbed the gradient and hoisted the rest of the ute over the apex, zooming down the other side with ease. Probably shouldn't take the big hills with all the supplies in the back.
 
Jim stared out his window, eyes trailing. Barren, golden sand and crisp, blue sky repeated over and over. He sighed. Shifting in his seat, Raynor looked at Karax. Chattin's a good way to pass the time.
 
"So, Karax," Jim said. "How'd you get caught by those no-good-nicks?"
 
<I'm not sure,> said the voice inside Jim's head. <I took a strong hit to the head. My memory's fuzzy of my arrival in this desert world.> Karax broke eye contact and stared ahead. <I feel like I was ... searching for something, but I have no idea what. I'm hoping it will come back to me, with time.> His glowing blue eyes returned. <Though I'm certain I was easy prey for those bandits. Phase-smiths aren't trained in the ways of battle. Well, not Khalai phase-smiths anyway.>
 
"Yeah?" Jim didn't know much about protoss politics or culture, other than how it informed their sense of warfare. He knew enough that the Khalai protoss, something he once knew as the templar caste, were the 'original' or 'pure' versions of their people, all joined together through a psychic consciousness called the Khala. Then there were the Nerazim, or dark templar, who shunned that link and were banished for their independence. Though thanks to the emergence of the zerg, necessity forced the two halves back into a single whole, yet such divisions and differences, harboured for millennia, did not vanish overnight no matter how dire the circumstances.
 
Their stubbornness eventually vanished thanks to the artful, compassionate leadership of Artanis, perhaps his closest protoss ally if not for what befell Zeratul. Yet even now, with Karax's severed nerve cords, the psionic race would never be the same, regardless of the outcome against Amon.
 
"So the Nerazim phase-smiths ... they're taught how to fight?"
 
Karax nodded. <It's part of their culture. More inclusive, perhaps. Hierarchies are more loose than the Khalai was. Recognition and respect played a bigger role, rather than holding a rank and lording it over everyone beneath you.> He shrugged his shoulders. <Though Artanis has undone much of the old ways of thinking. He would often say, "for such an advanced race, we can be so primitive.">
 
Jim smiled. "Heh. Sounds like somethin' Artanis would say. So ... what's next for you?"
 
<What do you mean, James Raynor?>
 
"Well we ain't exactly in Koprulu space anymore. We're stranded in this ... dimension, s'pose you'd call it, with no way home. At least, none we've thought of yet."
 
Karax's brow crinkled, and he turned his face away. <Yes. I figured as much when I couldn't hail the Spear of Adun.>
 
Jim rubbed his eyes with calloused fingertips. "You're plenty welcome to stay with me and the gang if you'd like. I know we ain't exactly protoss, but at least we're familiar. Just till you work out what it was you were lookin' for."
 
The protoss phase-smith stared at Jim quietly for a few moments. <Thank you, James Raynor. I believe I will take you up on that offer.> His blue eyes gazed out the windshield. <I don't understand where the stereotype of the uncivilised, stupid human ever came from.>
 
Jim raised his eyebrows and then settled them back down. "S'pose that was a protoss compliment."
 
Roland was already waiting for them at the edge of town as Jim rolled to a stop. Head lowered, thumbs in belt, the sheriff lazily lifted his chin until his eyes were visible beneath the brim of his hat. The tepid wind rustled his jacket, but otherwise his frame stayed statue-still. Jim's eyes watered and burned from the sun, but he could've sworn there were the makings of a smile on that hard man's face.
 
The engine of the old ute chugged and rattled as it idled, vibrating the cabin. Jim twisted the keys and the oscillations cut, leaving a ghostly memory in his bones. His fingers curled around the door handle and it swung open with a rusty creak. The heat steamed from the sands as he took his first step free of the vehicle, his back damp with sweat. Clouds of dust rolled over him as the other vehicles pulled up nearby. A thick trench in the sand ended at the motorbike that the adjutant had driven in the CMC-400 armour, its frame squashed against its wheels. As the AI disembarked the vehicle, it almost leapt up like a pent-up spring.
 
Ronald broke his pose and meandered over to Jim. "How'd you go?"
 
Jim banged on the hood of the ute. "It's all in the back, sheriff."
 
"That so?" Deschain wandered to the tray of the ute, eyes scrutinising the boxes piled therein. He leaned in, hands gliding over an alpha-numeric tag sprayed onto the wood. "Hmm. Looks like you found them. Good work."
 
"Wasn't all just me, sheriff." Jim's squadron gathered near him.
 
"Well then, good work to the lot of you. You've all earned your keep today. Lots of people will be thankful for what you done for them today."
 
Karax appeared from the ute, and Ronald cocked an eyebrow. "And who might this be? Don't recall seeing this one leave with you."
 
"He's an old friend, sheriff. No need to worry."
 
<Greetings, sheriff,> Karax said, though Raynor reckoned the protoss didn't know what a sheriff was. <I am Karax, phase-smith aboard the protoss warship Spear of Adun.>
 
"Yeah, of course you are." Deschain climbed into the ute and the engine revved to spluttering life again. "I'm going to move this into town where we can distribute it. Oh, and Jim?" Ronald leaned into the cab for a moment, then threw a tarnished yellow object at him. "You wanted this, right?"
 
Raynor caught the object and held it up. A five pointed star badge, discoloured and in bad need of a cleaning, with the word 'deputy' embossed onto it.
 
"Part of the law again, cowboy?"
 
Rory Swann walked past the ute as it chugged into town. His ruddy face had black smudges, as did the tips of his gloves.
 
"Yeah, seems that way, don't it?" Jim attached the badge to his jacket, shifting it until it sat right. "I could get used to this."
 
"How'd the new kids go?"
 
"Pretty good. Kept themselves alive, listened to orders ... that's about all I need 'em to do."
 
Swann frowned as his eyes landed on Karax. "H-hey Jimbo, did you know there's a protoss here?"
 
"Don't be daft, Swann. This is Karax, Artanis' phase-smith. He pretty much does your job, but on protoss ships."
 
Rory frowned and walked awkwardly over to Karax. "Good to meet ya, Karax. I'm Swann."
 
Karax nodded. <Greetings, Swann. I believe you once spoke to Artanis.>
 
Swann's face relaxed a little. "Y-yeah. That's right. Good man, er, alien that Artanis."
 
"All right Swann," Jim said, smiling. Something about the protoss made his engineer friend nervous; maybe it was the telepathy, making Swann think they could read his mind or something. Whatever the reason, it was unfounded. "How about we all go have a drink? Been dyin' for something to quench this dry throat for four hundred miles."
 
"Heh, now you're talkin'."