StarCraft DIECAST II: Bastards of War

February 11, 3451 

February 11, 3451 

I'm damn glad I got out when I did. I suppose some introduction is needed. I am Robert 

L. Hans, formerly of the Terran Confederation Muh-reen Corps, and I am talking to a journal. I don't care, though- there are some things that need to be said. 

Some stories that need to be told. 

I'll start off with my background. Born in a barn, raised on hardtack, booted into the corps at age 18. Served for forty years, did a lot of things, none that I particularly want to discuss, though. The important stuff happens after I catch the sniper shell to the 

leg and get rotated back to New Paris to serve as a DI. 

I made it a scary place. I'm the demon that turned the water-fat soft skinned yeller-bellied hill billies into mindless, vicious killing machines that are more commonly called, with much affection, "GRUNTS". 

I enjoyed my job. It's hard to pin exactly what part did the trick for me: was it the God-like feeling of having complete control, was it the look of suffering on Billy Bob's face as he made that first, desperate haul to the barracks, or was it the fancy Vulture they threw in with the deal? I've given it a lot of thought in my spare time but never produced an answer. 

Hell, might've been the bike. 

But all that changed. I got this one training cadre in, you see. Best damned platoon I'd ever dealt with. The deadwood was cleared out early- only about two of 'em- leaving a good thrifty eight sculptable recruits to work with. These men (and women, as things turned out) were determined. I could do all sorts of shit to them, and believe you me, they took a lot. I'm famous for my methods of getting the princesses outta bed, and even I had to make up a few things. 

Things were 

looking good- all up 'till the night before graduation. 

I can still remember the booms. Those first, few crashing booms of the Siege tanks firing off their Earthquake sounder-rounds. We all rushed to the armory, they were dazed, confused, but excited. 

Me? I was scared shitless. 

To this day, I find it hard to talk about what happened next. For a few minutes, I was convinced the planet had become the Roman Catholic hell. We rushed into the bunkers, just as the last Siege tank fell. But the burning tanks only gave us light to see our 

attackers. Which I wish it hadn't. 

Back then, the word "Zerg" was unknown. If cried, it didn't send mothers scuttling into bomb shelters, if screamed, your first instinct wasn't to chamber a round. So imagine our reaction when we're rushed by a bunch of two meter long predators, with sickle claws 

and razor teeth. 

It was a slaughter. We were being routed, even as we poured shells into the wave of invaders, they rushed our lines and in suicide packs, would storm the strong points. The only thing that saved us was a relief team of emergency recon, arriving on the wings of 

Wraiths and drop ships. 

The morning after, I was left with five broken ribs, fourteen wounded survivors, and one very belligerent recon colonel. The prick calls me into my-now his- office, and tells me the following (abridged and summarized): 

"We're in quite a clusterfuck. These biological nightmares have been springing up on our worlds like wildfires, and we're neck-deep trying to contain them. Truth is, we can't. So we're gonna rip your boys from their infirmary beds, slap a gun in their hands and put them on the front lines. Oh, and you with them." 

Me being the articulate boy I am, I gave him the finger, along with a few hand picked words, and left. That night, I handed in my resignation, and the next day, I threw a salute to the sentries as I strode out the gates. 

Of course, I didn't leave empty handed. Two days later, special freight brought to my doorstep on Tarsonis a multi ton, two meter cargo crate, hand addressed to me from my good buddy, Gunny Morley. I politely directed the loader to my basement. With some crazy alien race running amok, I wasn't about to be caught with my pants down. 

Not days after my retirement, and before I could fully enjoy my discharge bonus, war broke out. 

Figures. 

They called themselves the "Sons of Korhal." I remember way back when the Confed reduced Korhal to nuclear rubble. Left a bad feeling in my regiment's collective mouth. And apparently pissed off this Acturus Mengsk fellow. 

I watched to war over the nets; the Korhal soldiers dodging in between defenses to land a surgical strike here, gain ground there. Of course propaganda played the m out to be a bunch of cut throats, which in an essence, they were. No wonder I liked them. 

When nights later I was awoke in my bed by flashes and distant thunder, I stumbled outside into the chill dawn, grasping my Peacekeeper pistol, reliving the nightmare of New Paris. But once my fool self came to its senses, dulled since by whiskey aplenty, I realized the combat was in the skies. Beyond the atmosphere, the New Gettysburg planetary defense platform was under heavy siege by hordes of Korhal units. 

Enthralled, I rushed inside to the receiver. Now mind you, being a proper badass-turned-pirate, my receiver is able to transcend the filters of commercial net. In other words, while the news told Joe next door that the strike force was ill equipped and being driven back, the military net tactical reports told me that they were packing several Behmoth-class battlecruisers and were advancing. 

Unstobbably. 

What you couldn't pick up form the net receivers you could derive from common sense. Even in the rather small city near where lived, SCVs scrambled by like little, frivolous worker bees, erecting missile turrets and bunkers. Marines tromped through the streets, grim and dour. They were bracing for the inevitable planetary assault. 

Now, I'm a man of proper practicality. Here was an interesting situation: the same assholes who fucked me with their red tape and secrecy were in turn being fucked by a group of highly trained, competent rebels. Was I intending to join them? No. 

The platform which they were assaulting had a graveyard of decommissioned warships. Cruisers, 

destroyers, even a few critically damaged Behemoths sat in mothballs, waiting to be cut apart for salvage. 

Point: while the Confeds were getting whacked, they wouldn't have enough resources or time to care while a stolen shuttle filled with ex-marine malcontents borrowed one of their old battle-boats. 

A couple of phone calls, and it was done. I went down to my basement, where I threw the tarps and lid off my parting gift from Morley. 

It was two meters tall, painted in a fashionable pattern of urban tiger-stripe, and spangled with 

various epithets such as "THIS END UP", "KISS YOUR @$$ 

GOODBYE", and "EAT SHIT AND DIE". Memoirs from my most colorful youth. 

The Razorback infantry combat suit functioned perfectly, axles, gears, and gyros lubed to 

satisfaction. The accompanying AL-155 auto loading scattergun was fresh from the New Paris armories, and still had all the warning stickers on it. She embraced me like a parted lover, and I sighed with equal appreciation. I was back in the saddle. 

Time to kick some ass. 

Man was it good to see Peaches again. Peaches, my old chum from the 50th light drop, is a bloke of proper vulgarity, brute strength, blood/alcohol mixture, and compassionate tenderness. He was dressed in his old attire as well, and no one stopped us as we, along with 20 other fully suited badasses, strode onto a shuttle, and with the obligatory wave and wan 

smile, bolted for orbit. 

I've never seen combat so intense. I can't describe it. It was like a crazed, frenzied ballet of war. 

Marines, in crimson armor, swarmed across the battlements, and rushed forward like angry red ants, while the white-armored Confeds tripped backwards in sloppy retreat. Wraith fighters weaved ion-exhaust trails in the void, twirling in their dance of death, hurling missiles at each other until one was blown apart. Behemoth cruisers floated over like ominous sentinels, dispelling expedient particle-cannon death to units below. Some of the massive cruisers 

themselves lay in shambles, destroyed chunks floating 

derelict. We weaved in between them. 

Our luck that the shipyards were the focus of a bold new Korhal marine raid. The Confeds did mind, after all, when we docked with one of their old Concord- class troop carriers and decided to say adieu with their military hardware. Peaches and the boys held them at the gates while I struggled to get the old mare on her feet. The engines were tired from many years of repose, and were reluctant to turn when big daddy Hans turned the key. 

Eventually, the cold fusion reactor did sputter to life, and we drifted away from the embattled platform, exchanging jokes with Korhal troops who had, with our help, captured the shipyard control tower. 

I named her the Lujak, after my perpetually drunk uncle. She piloted like he would, were he a multi ton starship. She had a few kinks, but nothing Peaches and I couldn't plug with some strategically placed duct tape. 

What were we to do? No, allow me to rephrase- what are we to do? As I write, the Lujak is getting as far away from anything Confederate as she can, steaming towards a little planetary system called Mar. Great name, should have its host of illegal arms depots, I think. We need guns. And fellow malcontents. Neither should be hard to come by in a backwater 

system. 

I live the life of a pirate now. A private soldier. A mercenary, a badass, a boot-up-your-ass Ex Marine with an attitude as bad as my spit-shined, chrome plated rifle, God bless you Sergeant Morley! 

What the future holds for me? Damned if I know. 

Damned if I care.


End file.

StarCraft, Adventure