"I love it when someone "raises" a base. Look, it floats!!"
-.Praetor
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| Prelude to Fire and Ice | | | Author: | | | IP: | c209662-XXXX | | Date: | 03/31/01 09:03 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 7, Min: 7
Lifetime Rating for -CitizenKane-: 6.5000 |  | This is the second installment in a series of fiction set in the StarCraft universe. The first installment can be found here
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Quite frankly, I'm not sure if this'll be any good. If it sucks, go ahead and sue me. It's the try that counts, right?
Place: The C.S.S. Troy
Time: T+30 seconds after Project Armageddon
They were in space.
This should not be significant. All of the crew members were veterans of many space launches. They have all experienced the acceleration of takeoff, the sudden stillness of space, the shock of seeing all the Milky Way, unobstructed by meddling atmosphere and air currents. But there was something different this time. Maybe it was their mission, maybe it was the battlecruisers that escorted them, but, somehow, it was on all their minds:
They were in space.
Fleet Admiral Jameson broke the silence. “We will rendezvous with our warp ship.” It was cheaper to use a single ship to carry all four of them into high-speed travel than to use their own warp engines. “Commander Bradley, set a course toward the warp ship, take it easy.”
“Yes ma’am.” John did something, then said, “We will be there in an hour, 12 minutes, ma’am, plus-minus 42 seconds.”
“Very good. Crew, at ease.”
All the crew shifted back in their seats. “I’m going to get a drink”, said Mark. “If you need me, I’ll be in the bar.” He walked out the door into the dark corridor beyond.
“I think I will, too,” said John. He followed.
* * *
The Darksun Bar was a dimly-lit place. The security officer who manned the bar was not at the counter yet. In the darkest corner, an old veteran of the Kel-Morian wars sat at one of the few tables, brooding on whatever it is that war veterans brood on. Mark could not remember his name. He clutched a synthetic dark beer in a blue, translucent plastic cup. He took a sip, then lowered it from his unshaven face. His back was turned toward the starry windows behind him.
Mark pulled himself a draft— not a synthetic, but the good kind brewd on the homeworlds on Kel-Moria. He was using up his good beer ration, but he dint care.
The old man heard the draft being pulled, and looked up. He had a very ugly face indeed.
He opened his mouth, almost mechanically, and said, “Its infested,” in a gravely, low voice.
“Excuse me?” Mark responded, trying to sound indifferent.
“Chau Sara. It’s infested.”
“Infested?” Mark’s eyes narrowed.
The old man coughed. “The Zerg. They’ve infested Chau Sara.”
Mark could not think of a response.
John walked in. Encouraged by his growing audience, the man stood up.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “The zerg will enslave us all! Turn us into mindless servants! I have seen it with my own eyes! We must—”
“Who are these Zerg?” John asked, moving toward the old man. His eyes had a glint in them...
The old man paused, trying to remember. He looked around, rubbing his neck. Mark took a swig of beer.
Then suddenly the old man spat out: “Doggies.”
Mark burst into a fit of laughter, spraying beer all over the carpet. John moved even closer.
“You heard me!” he screamed suddenly. John jumped. Mark laughed harder.
“Doggies! Rabid little helldogs with six legs and fangs! They rip you to shreds with flashing claws and suck your mortal blood!”
Mark was wiping beer and drool off his chin when his comdeck beeped. He picked it up.
“Yes?” he asked, trying to keep laughter out of his voice.
“Commander Ryan.” It was Jameson. “The Sons of Korhal has retreated their entire force from Chau Sara, to Mar Sara. We will be changing course accordingly. Just keeping you informed.”
The old man had nothing to say to this. Mark thought this would be a good time to leave. John pulled a draft, then followed.
“The doggies will get you!” the old man called after them.
Mark, still laughing, said to John, “Hah! What a— evil doggies my ass— John?”
John had sped up and passed him up, an inscrutable look on his face.
“John? Hello?” He slowed, then stopped. “John?”
* * *
John Bradley had already recalibrated the ship’s position, to be in tandem with the warp ship’s new course. Peter Duke had made his usual ‘inspiring’ speech. They had conducted a go-no-go for launch. The crew sat in acceleration brace position.
Over a security audio connection spoke the warp ship’s commander, dark and steely.
“All systems are go. Prepare for warp in 5...”
The crew shifted uneasily in their seats. A couple of them looked at each other. Mark’s mind kept tossing him images of packs of six-legged, fanged Chihuahuas swarming some old guy in a kilt.
“4...
“3...
“2...
“1...” The voice faded to static, the lights flickered, and they accelerated quickly. The crew was pressed back into their chairs, and John felt a pain on his chest like a giant specter was pushing him back with a massive, powerful hand. Then there was a deafening blast, and the pressing lifted. John took a deep breath.
“Well,” said Jameson. “We’re in warp.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered, then went out.
“What the hell?” said Jameson, looking around at the dead lights. People moved around uneasily and noisily got out of their seats.
Hearing the noise, Jameson shouted, “Sit down! All of you! Commander O’Bison, what the hell happened?”
“I don't know! Primary, secondary and emergency power grid is all down! Our command consoles have no power! All we have is the life support power grid.”
“Shit,” somebody said.
Long silence.
“Admiral,” said somebody, “we’re being hailed from the Geist. We can hear audio only... because of the power loss,” he added.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Admiral.” The voice was breathless and panicky. “Our ship has come under attack.. by.. I don't know. I don't know if we can survive. They hit Trevise first... they.. oh, they burst right out of his.. chest..” He started sobbing. “two of them... oh.. and then the others... *sob* oh, help me please! Please.. help—” He stopped. They could still hear his breathing. “No.. get away!” They could hear guass rifle shots nearby. “Get away, all of you!” he screamed.
Then a new voice, nasty, reedy and high pitched, came on. “For the swarm!” it said.
“No.. get away! Aaaauurrg—”
There was an explosion, then silence. Everyone sat in the darkness, in shock.
For some reason, Mark had to go to the bathroom. John was sitting deathly still.
Commander O’Bison gulped, then said, “Transmission lost. Admiral.”
Suddenly, there was a light in the dark. Everybody looked for the source. It was Mark.
“Flashlights,” he said. He pointed to a panel in the wall, which contained flashlights for all. Then he said, “I have to take a shit,” and ran out of the room.
“Commander Ryan, come back here! Commander Ryan—” The fleet admiral sighed, then eased herself back into her seat.
The bridge grew brighter as people flicked on their flashlights. The light seemed to have a calming effect on the crew.
Somebody’s flashlight blew out, throwing out a bright flash over the bridge. John jerked suddenly in his seat, dropped his light, and jerked his hands up to block all light. Then, slowly, he eased back down, breathing heavily. His heart was pounding.
“Anything wrong, commander?” asked Jameson.
“I have seizures. Sorry,” as if it was nothing.
“I thought they cured that,” someone said.
“They cured epilepsy. Not seizures. Two different things.”
“Oh,” the man said.
“Now then,” said Jameson. “We’ll have to secure the ship. Commander Ry—... um, commander Pylon.”
“Yes ma’am,” said the man behind Jameson, before she finished her command. He held up his comdeck.
“All security lieutenants, report to the bridge. Immediately, per command of Fleet Admiral Jameson.”
“Good. Commander O’Bison, if any news comes from the other three ships, inform me immediately. In the meanwhile, send out a signal informing everybody of the situation. And try to get the systems back online. Weapons, shields and security are the first priorities.”
“Yes ma’am.”
They were interrupted when a ghost walked in, carrying his own flashlight. It cast an eerie green light.
“Maverick,” he breathed, “reporting for duty.” Very rarely did ghosts have callsigns that matched their names.
John was shocked.
Ghosts? As security?
What the hell kind of mission was this?
He was snapped out of his thoughts by Commander O’Bison.
“Admiral,” he said.
“Yes, commander?”
“I can’t make contact with any of the ships.”
Her eyes narrowed. She leaned pressingly forward in her chair.
“What?”
“The Geist. The Green. The Helen. The Odysseus. All dead. No contact.”
There was a long silence. Several ghosts walked in, but the crew took little notice. Flashlights shone through the darkness.
“Commander Bradley,” said Jameson’s commanding female voice.
John looked up.
“You and your lieutenants— the wraith pilots— will go to the shuttle bay. Each pilot will take two security commanders to one of the ships. Two commanders will stay behind. Oh— um— Commander Pylon— don’t use the gauss rifles. And see if you can get Mark out of the bathroom. See if you can put an end to all— our present calamity.”
Monty Pylon nodded shortly.
Who are my commanders? wondered John. He checked his briefing, stored on his holopad. After that, he wondered, Why would wraiths be in the shuttle bay? Why would wraiths be here at all? And then he thought, Why was Admiral Jameson so reluctant to say the word this? She said, “An end to all— our present calamity.”
Odd. Very odd. This whole damn thing is too weird.
He looked at Monty, who was in the weapons storage, in the back of the bridge. He exited, carrying eight long, black boxes on a hand hovertruck. John knew the modified wraiths on this ship could tow shuttles, and these boxes would probably be carried in those shuttles.
John took out his comdeck. One of his officers, Lt. Cmdr. DuRainer, should be in the shuttle bay with the other navigators.
“Commander DuRainer.”
“Yes, sir?” His voice was soft and gentle, but it had just a hint of hostility.
“Are the navigators with you? In the shuttle bay?”
“Yes, commander. They’re all here.”
“Commander Bradley,” said Jameson.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Patch them through to me. I’ll brief them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned back to his comdeck. “I’m patching you through to Admiral Jameson. She’ll brief you.” He coughed. “Over and out.” He patched them through, then closed the connection with a soft click. He dropped the comdeck in his pocket.
“Well,” said Monty. “Let’s go.”
The ghosts went first. The three security commanders, including Monty, went next. John followed.
John noticed that Mark’s hand hovertruck was self-propelled. The blue screen on the back that propelled it gave an eerie blue glow.
* * *
The four wraith pilots in the shuttle bay did not know what to make of their briefing from Admiral Jameson. They sat very uneasily on a bench on the wall.
The shuttle bay was dark and cavernous. Four modified wraiths, their laser guns raised to their chassis to save space, loomed over the pilots on the ground.
One of the pilots coughed. It echoed off the walls.
“Well,” he said, “what do you make of this, Commander DuRainer?”
No response.
“DuRainer?” He looked around. DuRainer wasn’t there.
“Commander?” He got up.
He heard the cocking of a gun. He looked in the direction where the sound came from.
Standing there, near the door, was the man with the metal eye, wielding a guass rifle.
* * *
Monty was at the bathroom door. He knocked and said, “Commander Ryan? Sir? Let’s go.”
No response.
“Commander Ryan? We are going on a dangerous mission. We need your... authority. Let’s go, sir.”
Still no response.
“Commander Ryan, if you do not respond, I will break down the door. Sir.”
Finally, there was a response.
“Damn, man, can’t someone get a little privacy here?”
“Commander Ryan, sir, you’ve been in the bathroom for 5 minutes. It does not take that long to... do your business. Let’s go.”
No response.
“Commander Ryan, I will break down the door.”
“Dammit! I need my privacy!”
Monty hesitated, then started counting.
“Five. Uh, Four.”
Mark Ryan came out almost immediately.
* * *
The squad— Mark, John and the team of ghosts— arrived in the shuttle bay. They entered and looked around the cavernous space.
Nobody was there.
“Hello?” said Mark.
No response.
“Hello?” said John.
Still no response.
“Navigator C’Over?”
“Commander DuRainer!”
Silence.
“Navigator Raab! Commander DuRainer!”
“Um... shit?” said Mark.
John said, “We’d better go look for them—”
There was a pneumatic hiss and a thud. The door closed behind them.
“What the fuck—”
A loud alarm made them jump. The doors’ bulkheads were closing, sealing them in.
“Fuck. Fuck!”
John, meanwhile, was attempting to make contact with the crew.
“Admiral Jameson?” he spoke into his comdeck.
Nothing. He said, simply, “Unable to make contact.”
Mark, meanwhile, was scanning for the locations of the rest of the crew. He stared at his comdeck for a while, then looked at the rest of them with a truly frightened look indeed.
“Nobody,” he said. “I can’t find anybody.”
“Wha—”
“Not even... Admiral Jameson, not even—” This was too much. He felt like crying. In front of everyone... what a faux pas that would be.
They were immediately started by an announcement that cut a fear into their hearts:
“Self-Destruct Sequence Initiated.”
“....”
“One minute to self destruct.”
“Shit,” said a ghost.
“Well then,” said Mark. “This— this is— What is this?”
“This,” said John, “is time to get out of here.”
“But,” said one of the ghosts, “we only have one pilot. For one wraith. Commander—”
“Well—” said John, “umm— here, get in that shuttle, Mark and me, we’ll tow you.”
“....”
“We?”
“....”
“Shit.”
“Shhhhh! Gogogo! We only have—”
50 seconds until self destruct.
“Shit!”
The ghosts climbed wordlessly into the shuttle, except one, who was mumbling “Shit” over and over again. John ran over to the shuttle bay’s controls. They were still operational. Under John’s command at the controls, the roof over their heads opened, and the claws and mechanisms holding the shuttle to the ground let go and slid into the ground.
“Come on!” shouted Mark, hurrying up the recently lowered ladder to the wraith’s cockpit. “We have— what—”
40 seconds until self destruct.
“Come on—”
“It’s a two-seater— two controller— Two people can pilot it at the same time right?”
“Who cares! Just move!”
John moved, scrambling up the ladder with amazing speed and dexterity.
30 seconds until self destruct.
John pushed past Mark to the pilot’s controls. It hurt, but neither of them cared.
“Good. You know how to pilot this thing?”
John said, “No, but...”
Silence.
John snapped back. He cracked his knuckles, first outward, then inward, and took the controls. “Powering up engines—” announced John. “Sunroof shield— lowered”
Warning. The sunroof shield will lower in 5 seconds.
“Well, lowering— Engines powered— shuttle cargo bay in tow— All systems go.”
“Then take off, dammit!”
Sunroof shield lowered. Self destruct in 14 seconds.
“Hey! Don’t rush me.”
“Don’t rush you? What the hell? We’re all about to die!”
“Hey! We’re leaving, okay? It’s all right.”
They accelerated quickly away from the ship—
“The sunroof is closing—” John announced, without looking away from the controls.
10 seconds until self-destruct.
“Who the hell cares? Get out of here!”
“We have been sent a message,” announced John. “Play?”
“Play it.”
“Playing—”
Attention, said the message.Self-destruct sequence has been canceled. Have a nice day.
“It was a trap,” said John.
“Trap!”
“Another message— playing—”
“Good afternoon. This is Steve DuRainer. One of Johns...” ...pause... “lieutenants.” He chuckled. “If you attempt to board the Troy or the other barge, you will be killed. That is all. Oh, almost forgot—” another chuckle— “have a nice day.”
There was a long silence. Mark and John exchanged glances.
“So,” said Mark finally, almost mechanically. “Now what?”
“Continue our mission— land,” John stated plainly. “We can’t just sit here. We need to retake the barge. If we— you— regain a battlecruiser, we can use our weapons as a bargaining chip in possible negotiations.”
“But— oh...” He made a grimace. “Ok.”
“Proceeding toward the battlecruiser.”
“Which one?”
“Uh— the Geist.”
The landing feet came out, the laser retracted, and they prepared to land.
Unbeknownst to them, something was watching the ship. It was made up of wafty, purple, sinewy folds of skin, which were flapping in space— if you can call it that. Suddenly all its flaps of skin blew open, and it expelled a small, brown thing not at them— but at the shuttle in tow.
The landing feet hit the surface of the U.S.S. Geist with a dull thud (if thuds can be heard in space). After a long while, the two got out of the ship, each now in full body armor. They stepped on the vast surface of the Behemoth-class Battlecruiser, walked around the wraith and went to look at the shuttle in tow—
but the shuttle wasn’t there.
A small, twisted chunk of therametal lay on the ground, attached via cord to the wraith.
John stared at the chunk of metal on the ground. John, meanwhile, was staring into the skies.
“Wh..” asked Mark raising his helmet to look where John was looking. But John said quickly. “Nothing” and rudely turned Mark around.
Mark was lucky he did not see it. Floating in the sky was a mass of debris, and suited in the blue— seven ghosts. Some were badly mangled, some had punctured suits, but all were not moving, at all.
Dead.
There was a body— bleeding profusely and torn completely open, his organs slowly floating away. It was barely recognizable as a ghost. Floating near it were two ugly, purple abominations of nature that looked as if they burst from the ghost’s body...
If Mark would have seen it, he would have not been able to proceed.
Fortunately, Mark had forgotten all about the ghosts.
“Mark,” said John.
“What?”
“Grace under pressure. As always. Let’s find a way to enter this blasted thing.”
“Uh.”
NEXT- HELLDOGS WITH FANGS |
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