The Depths of Truth

by
Vasileios Kalabakas

This is the third day since we crashed at Toluk Valley.

I am Lieutenant Zebadiah Forrester, 53rd Valkyrie Squadron on detachment from 3rd Colonial Battle group to Stratix
colony, Thibadault system, Korpulu sector. I am writing this log, this journal, in the aftermath of the Protoss attack on New
Fredricksberg. As far as I know, I'm the only surviving member of my squadron. My crewman died in the wreckage of our
Valkyrie, and I accept total responsibility for his death.

I keep telling myself I couldn't pull him out in time without killing myself in the process, but the fact remains he is dead and
I'm alive, probably not for very long though.. I am living on food and water rations, and the barren landscape of the northern
regions here is as friendly as a Zerg. Precipitation is within the error margins and the only plant life I have encountered so
far are mollusks and some kind of fungous algae already known to be lethally poisonous. I should have headed for the
equator.

When the Protoss came in force, I was patrolling the area south of New Fredricksberg, along with my wingman Paul
Anacheim, God rest his soul. We picked up strong signals of a Zerg infestation and naturally we radioed in and maxed our
'burners further south, puzzling over how anyone had missed something that big on earlier sweeps. The rest of the squadron
scrambled to the air and we regrouped for a reconnaissance in force, delta wave formations, 2 mile separation..

After we flew over the designated area it became clear we had been duped; there was nothing other than crag and tundra, a
skin deep bassalt lakebed and instead of a Zerg hive a small artificial construct the size of a sensor array. A close fly-by
revealed it to be a Protoss artifact and the signal probably came from a modified psi-beacon, a lure to draw the Valkyries
away from the base, diminishing our defenses..

Their coordination was flawless. The exact moment we called in to warn New Fredricksberg, three Protoss Cruisers
decloaked inside the defense perimeter, with no warning from the sensor arrays. Whether it was sabotage, incompetence or
some new cloaking technology, it didn't matter. Before we lost contact HQ mentioned several attached units to the Cruiser
fleet and ordered a withdrawal to the predesignated scattering points all over Stratix.

We chugged that order with the blink of an eye, and very soon we would have second and third thoughts about it..

Upon entering the fray all we managed was to provide target practice for the Protoss task force. The turret defenses and
walls had already been laid to waste allowing the Protoss to pour in and surgically strike our vehicle depots, crippling our
ability to defend with any chance of success. We tried to take down the Cruisers, but their Scouts forced us into a dogfight
we were never meant to survive.

Airspace was at a premium above New Fredrickberg, and the Valkyrie isn't exactly the nimblest instrument of death from
above. We had lost the element of surprise, speed, and stand-off distance that made the Valkyrie infamously deadly. It did
not go well at all.

We were taking heavy fire from multiple directions, with Dragoons, Scouts and the Cruisers' drones concentrating on our
path. Formations, tactics and strategy became meaningless. Every twist and turn to avoid enemy fire just pitched us into
some other target reticle. I saw some of our Valkyries fall like bricks from the sky without taking a single hit, probably
because of some Arbiter.

Very aptly we lost cover, scattered, and became prey, hunted and put down by the Protoss' precise and coordinated salvos.
Being herded and culled like sheep, my instincts kicked in and I did what every animal does in fear of death; I fled.

I diverted all energy to maximum thrust, shutdown weapons systems and trusted my pilot skills. In earnest, I crossed my
fingers and prayed. Finding an opening throughout that maelstrom of plasma fire was next to impossible but a small gap
presented itself and I hurried to take advantage, with Paul running on auxiliary power right behind me.

Fleeing the massacre, I caught a glimpse of a Thor behemoth surrounded by a cloud of Cruiser drones, being brought down
like a bewildered giant, stung by bees, with Zealots biding their time around it like it was carrion fowl. I checked my
scanner and the sky behind me. One after another my fellow pilots were being picked out like flees and sent hurtling down
to the undeserved anonymity of 'battle casualties'. After a few minutes, we were the last ones still flying.

Amidst the chaos a lurking Scout angled in on me and caught me off-guard, unable to react, lock-on warnings buffeting the
cockpit with waves of sound and light. Instinctively I placed my hand on the ejection handle while in that split second Paul
having no weapons operational swung around and rammed that Scout at full thrust, forming a lava-like globule of ceramite
and metal, spiraling down in a fiery waltz of deathly embrace. I watched them as they silently became a fiery blot on the
tundra. I think I meant to cry out for Paul, but all I managed was to empty my stomach compulsively.

The shock of barely surviving the onslaught, perhaps the feeling of cowardice and inadequacy as well, had left me dazed
and numb. I found myself flying aimlessly over the empty landscape of the Vysgard Region, grazing red turf, endless miles
of tundra rushing past me, my mind blank, senses numb. I checked my sensors. Nothing followed. We had managed to stay
alive for now.

Crewman Dowty called in the intercom, arousing me from my reverie, suggesting that we should at least try to contact the
civilian lab complex in the north polar region, in order to sent word to Dominion Headquarters, while perhaps securing
some form of passage from Stratix back to our Battle group or wherever else Command would deem best. If there was time
and hope still left this was our only bet.

A few minutes after changing vector towards Scott's Landing the master caution alarm sounded and while I was trying to
get readings off the holographic displays, everything went dead. I lost every single system on board and as far as I can tell
nothing hit us, at least nothing I had ever seen or heard of before.

I threw the mechanical master switch on and tried to glide on actuators only, quickly scanning the ground for a suitable
stretch of land to perform an emergency landing. I jettisoned every piece of ordnance and the energy core trying to save
some weight and extend flight time but eventually I had to accept te fact we'd be going in hard. I fought with the controls
and strained the Valkyrie to design limits but luck was not the order of the day and on our way down I flew through a maze
of rocky spires that over-watched the intended landing site. I lost my left stabilizer and an engine core erupted in flames, the
Valkyrie went into a hard leftward spin and the ejection system was crippled by the impact.

I just closed my eyes and braced for impact.

When I woke up it must've been because of the smell of ammonia from the coolant system that leaked all around my
cockpit. I checked my extremities for injuries and sent a comm to Dowty who did not reply, so I unbuckled my harness and
jumped out of the cockpit with a jolt to check up on him. The smell of ammonia turned into chemical fumes and the
characteristicy acrid one of red hot ceramite.

What remained of the Valkyrie would quickly become a smoldering hulk, the fire spreading relentlessly. Dowty was
probably unconscious because of the fumes and a failed respirator unit, and every breath of his inched him closer to
permanent brain damage and death. I tried to force his canopy open, but Dowty's cockpit compartment was deformed from
the mechanical stresses of the impact. I emptied a clip from my auto-pistol trying to lodge it free, but to no avail. I tried to
use some broken fuel line as a lever but it would not even budge.

My flight suit indicators flashed red for toxic/radioactive lethal materials in proximity. I had to get out of there but that
meant I had to leave Dowty behind. I reassured myself there was nothing more I could do and decided in an instant to live
with what I now know to be murder on my hands.

I grabbed my survival kit and comm unit and started off with a jogging pace towards the north. I did not stop for an hour
and then I fell on my knees from exhaustion. I crawled under a rock outcropping that seemed to offer shelter from the harsh
winds and cried myself to sleep, hugging my kit and praying that I would never wake up again.

When I did wake up, I checked my chronometer by force of habit and realized I had slept for more than a day. The sun was
at high noon in the sky, and the rocks offered little shadow. I extrapolated my location relative to the crash site as accurately
as possible and realized that if I kept a bristle walking pace I could arrive at the lab complex by nightfall. A more stealthy
approach of moving only at night would keep me idle for many hours and I would only spend them brooding over
everything. I decided to move hastily but with caution in mind.

Hours went by with no change in scenery; the arid tundra was an almost ashen pitch of white with a few red tufts of plant
life. A few dirt mounds and small rock formations were not enough to help me get my bearings so for the most part I
trudged along blindly and trusted my instincts and polymap.

I stopped only twice, once to rest my legs and have some rations, and once more when I came upon the remains of a Protoss
Scout.

Unlike the Valkyrie, the Scout seemed unharmed; no signs of being fired upon, no catastrophic damage on its hull, only
some minor impact damage. A successful emergency landing if I read the signs right. I approached the Scout warily,
drawing my sidearm auto pistol and cautiously checking for signs of a trap.

Nothing happened when I entered the unfamiliar cockpit of the Scout and scrounged for anything that might seem important
or helpful. From the dirt railing on the ground this Scout seemed to have made a controlled landing while flying north. I
could not understand why the Protoss pilot had not waited for a rescue mission. Instead it seemed he actually took off on the
same vague direction as mine. It seemed to lack sense, but having realized I had tarried for too long, I picked up my pace
once again.

As calculated, by nightfall I could plainly see the communications tower of Scott's Landing. Thankfully it appeared to be in
one piece, unmolested insofar by the Protoss war machine.

In the hazy backdrop Larrigan's Fall dominated the horizon, the kilometer wide and unfathomably deep chasm that had
intrigued Sector Science Command to setup a research facility here in the first place. I had heard stories about how pilots,
struck by cabin fever, flew races inside Larrigan's Fall, more for the exhilaration and adrenaline and less for the bets
involved. Some even added to the extravagant scenery by literally carving themselves onto the rock.

Once I finally approached Scott's Landing perimeter I noticed there was very little activity if any at all. No posted guards,
no patrol vehicles, no busy personnel.

Perhaps there was a lock-down in place or they had already evacuated when the Protoss struck elsewhere. Perhaps they had
been able to get communications working through the ionostatic interference that had kept me out of touch since the attack
on New Fredricksberg. Maybe the fleet is on its way. I still don't know.

I trudged along past search and rescue vehicles, SCVs, depots, drilling equipment and various stacks and heaps of materiel I
was not entirely familiar with and reached an access shaft elevator that seemed locked. With a little luck and some
tampering from my behalf I managed to get inside. I pushed to talk to someone in charge but I got only static.

A quick view on the reference map of the facility made me push for the command sector level but it seemed to be
inaccessible. I just pushed for the first level right below, personnel quarters. Surely, I thought, I'd find some of the
personnel, get briefed on the latest developments and evacuation plans. Perhaps even a warm meal and a hot bath before
everything else.

I was soon disillusioned and the brief spell of feeling safe and secure was shattered. The elevator opened into a narrow and
utilitarian metal passageway, badly lit by a phosphorescent grid ru nning all along the length of this corridor. With walls
made from ceramite panels, forming standard design blocks row after row, I was reminded of our own barracks, though
there was a different feeling about this place.

There were few or no smells, no sounds, no graffiti, no chipping on walls and surfaces. These quarters were brand new. But
Scott's Landing had been in operation longer than New Fredricksberg. Maybe this level had been renovated but in wartime,
out here, renovation was an euphimism for 'blowing up'. What is more important was that there was not a soul in sight,
nowhere on the level. I searched every block and every room. All I found was a few wardrobes in disarray, and unfinished
coffee cups in the cafeteria. Someone did leave in a hurry but I still don't know where to.

The long walk here and the blind search have made me groggy. I need sleep. I'll continue my search tomorrow, I think the
Protoss have either been here before me or they will not be coming. I need to find what happened and more importantly, I
need a way off-planet. I'll add any findings to this log.

After all the past misfortunes I hope for the best.

I am Neramon, Dark Templar and Zeratul's former ally.

I found this journal on the body of the Terran named Zebadiah Forrester. I was not responsible for his gruesome death, and
had I been able I would try and prevent it. Alas, I am also in peril and I fear the worst has yet to come.

I'll continue the telling Zebadiah started, because it seems this will be the only record of what has and will probably
transpire, and his story so far is relevant to my mission here on the world of Stratix.

The downed Scout he encountered was mine, and indeed I was headed to this Terran facility when I lost control. The Terran
Valkyrie and my Scout met the same fate due to the strange emanations that originated here, from Scott's Landing, known in
our Scripture as Melenos. I did not wish for my rescue from Protoss forces; they are unaware of my work here, and for good
reason.

I believe them to be tainted. I am searching for proof of that taint.

Patiently I watched as our forces were poised to strike on Stratix for reasons beyond explanation. The Terrans had no
significant presence here, and the Zerg swarms have not yet despoiled this world. Yet, we prepared an assault of
disproportionate strength, as if using a hammer to swat a fly. It did not sit well with me. I observed from the shadows,
measuring our commanders, guessing at our intentions.

At first I found it distasteful to pry on my brothers as if they were so no more, but in the days that were to come the beast of
corruption finally reared its hideous head. Some of the commanders assigned had taken part in infamous campaigns, some
had not for even once tasted battle, and for some their ancestry was hidden, veritably erased, untraceable. I had the
indications of a plot alien in origin, a scheme beyond the power play and intrigue of Protoss families and clans. I acted with
vigilance, and using my psionic potency , melted in the shadows once again and stowed away inside the Carrier strike force
to the Thibadault system.

Upon landing on Stratix, I felt a disturbing sense of uneasiness, a pulsating source of fearfully strong psionic emanations
that I could not identify, and certainly could not ignore. While our forces prepared for the imminent attack on the small
Terran outpost of New Fredrickberg, I focused on the energies that had assaulted me and located their very source,
somewhere to the north. I knew where to search next.

As I subdued a Scout pilot, bending his will to my cause and taking his place, a search on the planetary map caused me to
fixate on a single point, the giant rift of Melenos, an unmistakably unique feature on the surface of this world. When the
first waves of Scouts were ordered into the air, I launched intent on flying north unnoticed for as long as possible, gathering
as much information and proof and returning to the Protoss host as fast as possible, blending in again like the night wisps of
Acheron. Intentions though are often misled.

Indeed when the massed might of our forces fell upon the Terrans, I was for an instant mesmerized in awe at the power we
had unleashed at those wretched souls. It was truly shameful that so much power was put to such use, when our brothers
elsewhere bled in agony and sorrow at the hands of the all-consuming Zerg. This was mischief and arrogance on a grand
scale. I sympathize with the Terran Zebediah, in that it was indeed a massacre, madness in bloodied form. In the midst of
the slaughter, I bitterly turned north while the mayhem below me occluded any stalking eyes.

Within miles of the giant rift I noticed a Terran complex that had not been marked on any map I had seen and suddenly, as
if passing through an invisible Arbiter field, I lost control of my Scout and plunged onto the surface of Stratix. Unable to fly
properly I used my psi powers to safely glide to a landing.

The strain was tenuous, but I managed to land, though poorly. I lost no time in assesing the damage to the Scout since while
this huge field remains in place I believe it impossible to use the craft again, even if it was flightworthy. Hurriedly I made
good speed for the Terran structures and had soon lost the craft from sight.

With my mind pondering the many unknowns and my psi-powers still ebbing, the hydralisks achieved total surprise.

The first one leapt up in front of my path, only allowing me enough time to activate my shield. Zergs, here on Stratix! It
pounced on my shield with vehement strikes of relentless fury, its nightmarish appearance filling my vision, blueish sparks
and the smell of ozon filling my every breath. As I regained my composure and prepared to focus for a psi-blast, my senses
warned of me two more assailants flanking me on each side.
Indeed, corrosive acid was being flung from these fast approaching instruments of terror, their chitinous armor brazen with
a mock reflection of myself being cast in the red hue of the twin suns of Stratix. They proved themselves a bland way to test
the mettle of a Dark Templar. With my shield quickly being depleted, I reached to my innermost depths and communed
with the unfathomable energies of the cosmos, channeling forces that could drive simple minds to catatonia by their mere
sight, and unleashed a blast of psychic power that stripped the Zerg of all life, their hive-connected minds now become an
inert mass of ooze, their limp husks a morbid reminder.

Overextending the reach of my powers in extremis had taken its toll on my physical stamina and endurance. With no other
suitable place in the tundra devoid of natural shelter, I dug into the burrow of the Zerg and fell into a deep limbic trance, and
dreamed not. The nightmares where yet to be seen, with my own eyes, in the flesh.

What I witnessed here on Scott's Landing makes every unimaginable horror trivial in comparison.

After having rested, my strength and spirit regained, I finally reached the Terran facility in the cover of darkness. For all
intents and purposed it seemed abandoned. But my senses urged me to be wary, for the echoes of powerful malevolence
were faint but unerringly true. Something primeval and evil lurks in this place, something unsettlingly familiar.

As I entered the lower levels of the complex, the feeling intensified. It became manifest with the body of the terran, and the
lower I descended the more I found to unsettle me. The facade of the living quarters level was quickly put aside; it was a
carefully staged ploy to dismiss the complex as having been evacuated recently and in a hurry, to fool stragglers and chance
visitors to death, and perhaps worse.

Below the administration level, I saw what Zeratul had only encountered before; treachery and horror in a magnitude that
shocks me still.

Thousands of suspension tanks, carved in the depths of the rock cliffs shadowing Melenos that even myself considered myth
. Hellish forms I could only sense by my psionic powers, not able to distinguish with my terror-filled eyes, eternally
suspended in an emerald sanctuary, a sepulcher of the damned.. Hosts of machinery, ducts and pipes provided these
slumbering minions of the armageddon that is yet to come. I could sense their purpose, their malignancy, carving a slow
path to my very soul and essence, a calling card to welcome them forever, serve in obedience.

As I traversed row upon row of these monstrosities, I reached an edifice, a control block, a shrine, I could not tell. Upon it I
saw, carved in crystal and set upon a slab made of bedrock, written in a form perhaps as ancient as the rock itself;

“We are the Gift and the Bane, we are One and Many;
we are become the Master, we are become Father.
We are the Fulcrum and the Archon,
we are the Mind and the Mother.
We are Xel'Naga, we are Truth.”

In that moment of revelation, my soul wavered and all hope seemed to abandon me. The Xel'Naga. But I remembered
Zeratul and Tassadar; I remember still. Their path, alight with heavenly righteousness and hellish fury would be my
unfaltering guide henceforth and unto my end.

I have finally seen the horrible truth I have sought for all my life. The search was long and winding, an arduous process, a
feat of perseverance and determination. A feat I have almost come to regret.

The last few decades have spurred conflict and debate my people had not encountered for millenia. Most knowledge of the
past has been forgotten and placed in the realm of mythos, fiction and stories as an educational past time, irrelevant to the
reality that consumes us with its bleakness. Regrettably, I know this to be false. I have bathed in the sacred knowledge of
our Scripture and have uncovered links and paths I am woe to traverse, but feel compelled and indeed obliged by fate and
duty to follow to the very end. There is darkness in our past, but there are darker corners still waiting to be met, and Stratix
is indeed a fulcrum, with our galaxy hanging in a precipitous, uneasy balance.

For decades I have toiled in our Libraries and Sanctums uncovering truths insofar unapproachable considered by most, if
not all, taboo. Myths interwoven with facts and riddles to be solved, hampered my progress. Patiently I connected pieces of
information, researching, visiting distant worlds and forgotten moons. I enlisted the help of Terrans with no prejudice of
race or much affinity to the ethics of war - profit being their sole belief in the cosmos.
I regret to have used some of my brothers as well, sometimes as decoys, other times as pawns, and ultimately as victims, but
it was for a purpose that knows no compassion and leaves no soul unscathed. Finally, my sacrifices began to bear fruit.

I had evidence to believe that the conflict that had ravaged this sector of space and had pitted Terrans and Protoss against
each other and their own, was no mere consequence of greed, hate and simple power lust. It had other, far darker origins,
and far wider reaching implications. This war that has been raging on and on will have no victor. It will only end in fire and
doom. Unless I can share the ultimate truth and lift the veil over our minds that has kept us tearing at each other's throat like
rabid Zergs. So fitting.

To think of the Zerg as a mindless scourge, a swarm that only seeks proliferation, to treat them as animals without
conscience or deeper purpose was a mistake we still regret, both Terrans and Protoss. The betrayed human, turned traitor
herself, the terrible Kerrigan, now Queen of Blades.

How little we understood, how little we know even after all that has transpired and has been written on so many worlds,
with so much blood, so much sacrifice. I shiver with fear and tremor with anger. I am not alien to these emotions. I believe
these emotions have above all, kept me alive and driven me true in my endeavor so far.

The Zerg are not enemies; they probably never have been anything else than puppets. They are weapons, tools, but who
wields them so? Who unleashed them upon our worlds and brought destruction and the all-consuming fear of the swarm to
every living soul? Who will live through these ravenous times?

We Dark Templars are known to use stealth and cunning to our advantage, bordering treachery and manipulation to achieve
our goals. We remained hidden and secluded for millenia, before it was deemed necessary to reveal ourselves once more, to
offer our aid and advice, lend a hand to our brothers and bridge a chasm so wide few of us believed it possible.

I'm afraid there are powers at be far more masterful in those arts than we could ever believe existed, and certainly not
hidden in plain sight, occluding our eyes, hearts and minds as a wall of sleep. Mayhap Tassadar had broken that veil and had
in his last moments known the real impact and meaning of his sacrifice.

The Xel'Naga are here; Not only on Stratix but on many worlds. And I believe they never left.

Their ruins, lore and artifacts were buried, forgotten, tabooed, and the Xel' Naga became a myth for scholars of little
accolade, and thus they evaded our vigilance for too long.

For when Zeratul came upon the hybrid terror on Braxxis it was Samir Duran, a Xel' Naga agent that had schemed to create
this monstrosity, biding his time, using resources impossible for a sole renegade Terran to acquire by accident or chance. I
now know this was but a grain of sand compared to what I have encountered here. What of other worlds? What lies hidden
and uncounted for? When will it awaken?

Whatever the reason, I have not met anyone else, friend or foe, for better or worse. I believe they are watching me, toying
with me, inviting me to feed on my desire to know everything, starting with Melenos.

Melenos, the mythical Xel'Naga temple hidden deep down in the chasm of Larrigan's Fall, built on the edge of the planet's
mantle, feeding on its raw energy, fueling a purpose so dark and sinister I myself refuse to accept as real. I need to see more.
I need to know. I need to go to the very depths where the Xel'Naga await, even if it leads to nothing more than ridicule and
death.

I fear my powers and training will prove inadequate should I be discovered and fall prey to the likes of liars and traitorous
mischievous beings of power ancient and malevolent such as the Xel'Naga. No matter; I am still Neramon, Protoss Dark
Templar. It should suffice even if I fail. Others will follow, even if I am deemed a raving heretic and a mad apostate. So be
it.

Zebadiah had no inkling of all this, and only wished to die as a warrior should – fighting to their last breath, of their own
free will. In that, we should hope that we are more alike with the Terrans than some would have us believe.

My soul itches to know that there is hope for both our people, and as long as hope lasts, I shall never stop, I shall never
falter in my stride. I, Neramon of Antioch, take this vow; I shall bring the Xel' Naga to the light, and will fight alongside
any who will join me, be they Protoss, Terran or Zerg. The coming tide grows strong; Who will help me stem it?