I. The Landing
The rumbling engines propel the battlecruiser through space. I sit at a table in the Promenade, sipping a glass of cold ale—most likely the last glass my lips will ever touch. Out the viewport, stars shimmer and glow in the blackness of space, and one by one, they vanish, giving way to more as we travel. I contemplate our destination, and take another sip of my drink. The ship is deserted; everyone in their quarters, asleep. They will not live to drink more ale, as I presume neither will I. Why? Because of our destination.
We, the elite, although millions accompany us in the decks below, are being sent on a one-way mission to our enemies' homeworld. Our superiors asked—no, pleaded for the Protoss to reinforce our ragtag fleet, but they unflinchingly refused. Even I must feel hatred for them, even though they paid the ultimate price to defeat the Overmind.
Now we go to extinguish all remaining Zerg life. You'd think that we'd be better equipped, but the UED decided that since the Overmind was dead, the threat was low. But they've never been on the battlefield. Never roasted under the hot sun while cowering inside a bunker. Never blown a hole in your best friend's head to prevent him from being infested, only to have your second artificial leg gnawed off by a Zergling.
Never been in war.
I put my glass back on the table and stand, my cyberleg squeaking. It will need oiling this night, and every night to come, for we will be fighting the Zerg. The Zerg, who nearly destroyed our homeworld in their murderous attempts to eliminate our species. The Zerg, who infested Samir Duran and Sarah Kerrigan, bringing to light the full depths of their vileness.
A young cadet walks in, tired and unshaven. He looks abused…no doubt sexually by some of the feminine-starved new recruits. I gesture him to a seat, where he orders a glass of water. "No," I say. "Water is for the surface." I bring him a glass of whiskey. "Enjoy it while you can." The boy is no more than fifteen, a sour age to begin drinking, a sour age to be raped. A sour age to join the military. I myself didn't join until twenty-six, but that was before even the Protoss had been discovered. In fact, I should be retired at this moment. Fifty is no age for a soldier.
I return to my cabin, the dark, stainless steel walls close in around me. In order to fit enough men into our battlecruiser, the crew quarters have been sliced into half of what they'd use to have been. Now I must go to my neighbor to take a piss, and he must come to me for his share of rations. I grasp a can of oil in my hand and pour some onto a cloth. I massage my cyberleg with the cloth vigorously, and the screech of metal on metal halts.
I would have oiled the ankle as well, but that was when the metallic voice of our onboard computer said: "Attention all personnel. Report to your scheduled Landing Positions. We have entered orbit of Char. Repeat, we have entered orbit of Char."
"Hell," I mutter angrily.
There is a bustle of activity outside my door, the clatter of marines, and yelling. I roll down my pant leg.
Opening the closet next to me I remove my armor and helmet, along with the Gauss Rifle issued to all Privates. My door slides open and my neighbor runs in to grab his gear as well. I exit, turning the corner. I don't need to follow the signs, but I always like to know where I am, so I do it anyway. 23rd Deck, Docking Port 18, Seat 4. That's where I need to go.
That's where my dropship is.
Barely two minutes pass between when I leave my cabin and when I reach my dropship. I secure my weapon above my head and pull down the bars which will keep me steady during our passage down. The pilot yells into my ear: "Are you ready for the ride of your life?" I nod my head and she laughs. The other marines in the ship are sitting, immobile, mindless soldiers ready and willing to die. There is a seat empty. Over the roar of the engines I scream, "Where is our last passenger?" The pilot shrugs, and as she does so her breasts bob. Damn those silicone implants! All women need them nowadays—my mind has yet to realize why. "Either way, we're launching when they call us!" Port 16 is called, then 17, and no sign of our missing marine. Then, just as the pilot fires up the engines, a figure leaps onto the dropship and sprints to his seat. It's the boy I recall from the Promenade. "You had us worried, kid!" The pilot says. "Glad to see we're all here!" I give the boy a solemn nod, and then the engines kick in, and we plummet, hitting 20 gs and not breaking a sweat. Luckily our suits keep the g-forces out and our guts in.
I close my eyes and clench my fists; landing is never a pleasant experience. That's why most civilians prefer to settle on one planet and stay there. I've heard some space junkies call landing "a joyous ride." I'd like to kill whoever said that. The boy looks nauseous, ready to puke the ale I gifted to him. "Hold it in kid!" I yell over the comlink. "Wait till we're on the surface!" And then, after nearly 10 minutes of the excruciating entry, all goes calm. I chance a look out the window and see smoke, fire, and magma. The pilot grins. "Welcome to Char."
I sigh, glad to be rid of the intense g-forces we went through. The dropship hovers at 20 feet above the rocky ground, and we see gunfire ripple across the terrain, accompanied by screams of agony—both Human and Zerg. I grab my weapon and drop to the ground. The boy follows.
"Lock and load, kid."