Free Shadow Hunters by Christie Golden, Glenn Rane Page A

not what it was.” She laid a long, clawed hand on the pulsing cocoon, wishing that she could offer the comfort of touch. Inside, what had once been a human man named Ethan Stewart kicked as best he could and sent forth a silent scream.
    “But you wil be glorious when it is al done,” she murmured. “Glorious as your queen is. You wil know power such as you have never tasted.” She began to explore the mind that was being re-formed the same way his body was being re-formed. She was surprised to discover that Ethan had no latent psychic abilities. Stil, his was a highly inteligent mind. Highly disciplined. But damaged. It would need to be repaired as much as possible, but some of the damage could be of use to her. She had seen through the eyes and mind of the zergling that had gazed first at the surgeon, then at the patient on the bed, then at the familiar, delicate filigree of wires that constituted a psi-screen. She had jumped to the conclusion that Ethan was, like herself, a ghost.
    She had thought that he was the originator of the strange ripples she had sensed so far away. Clearly, he wasn’t capable of such things. But as she insinuated herself into his mind, she realized that while he himself was not responsible for the ripple, he knew … something. Something about protoss and terrans. Right now, the rage and paranoia rampaging through his brain was preventing her from accessing that information clearly. But the organic chemicals that were modifying his brain would help settle some of that.
    Not al, but some. She was familiar with what overusage of a psi-screen did to a person. She’d been given a graphic demonstration during her training. She’d seen the loss of control, the rage, the cunning, the paranoia. Had quailed as her instructors had let the poor shattered ghost hurl herself against padded wals and scream epithets.
    Because he was not a psi, Ethan would have suffered less injury. But he’d stil be damaged. Maybe even a bit insane.
    She could work with that.
    She had created him, in a sense; right now he was helpless, in agony, entirely dependent on her for his survival. She had put others through this process before, a matter of trial and error, learning more with each failure or mild success. Ethan would, she hoped, be the culmination of al she had learned through those experiments. If al went as she anticipated, he would be magnificent, though of course not as perfect as she herself. She had no intention of creating a rival. She hoped to create an aly, a general, a warrior.
    She hoped to create a consort.
    There was no time to suit up. There was no time to do anything but hit the switch, watch the door iris open, and fire point blank at the two four-legged monstrosities who charged at them. Bits of shattered chitin, blood, and flesh sprayed al over the cargo bay door, sprayed al over Rosemary and Jake.
    “Hold them off!” Rosemary shouted to Jake. He obeyed, his wil and Zamara’s completely one and the same. He was almost numb with horror but kept the rifle leveled, squeezing it so hard his hand cramped. Another, smaler zerg came at him, mandibles snapping, chittering madly, its eyes black and shiny and focused on him. It crawled without hesitating over the stil-twitching bodies of the falen. Jake trained the rifle on it and blasted it to a pulp, hyperaware that more would be out there. He tried franticaly to remember what he knew about zerg. It wasn’t much that was helpful.

    Rosemary dove for the lockers and emerged with a handful of smal round things.
    “Get down!” she cried as she lobbed one toward the door.
    Jake dropped, lying on his side, stil somehow gripping the rifle, stil firing. The third thing was dead. There was quite the nasty, foul-smeling pile accumulating. The puddle of sludgy blood was oozing toward him.
    “Cover your head!”
    He did so, and heard a terrible boom. Bits of dead zerg spattered his body with soft plopping sounds. The stench was appaling as the liquids