The images of the terrible slaughter near Char in far off Koprulu flickered
on the telescreen. Alexander Preston simply watched in awe as thousands of
Zerg were literally wiped away by UED firepower. It was truly quite
impressive to see the resources of Earth demolishing the greatest threat
the world had ever encountered. The disk ended with the bloody visage of
what Preston was guessing to be a Hydralisk, filling the screen. He
ejected the disk and inserted a second, given to him by George Churchill,
the leader of the Underground.
This one was much different. Flames whipped across the screen, and between surges of violent inferno, Preston could see people running through the streets screaming, carrying babies, only to be gunned down by someone off camera. The camera man walked forward, and panned up. The unmistakable hull of a battlecruiser loomed above the burning city. Again, the camera man zoomed in. There emblazoned on the side, was the symbol of the UED, the Eagle and Lighting. The camera looked down at the motionless bodies and slowly moved away. Preston watched more video of UED soldiers calmly slaughtering the inhabitants of the un-named city. The disk ran towards the end, and the camera panned up one final time, showing an old, burned, road sign, reading WELCOME TO AUGUSTGRAD.
Preston walked away from the telescreen and walked into his office. The UED flag hung from the wall, given to him by the President of the UED himself, Arnold Johnson. Preston looked at the pictures on the wall, pictures of wartime friends, many now lost in the folds of time, dead, missing, or out of touch. Preston supposed, that being the high-ranking man he was, he could have found them, but he never had. He sat down in the antique leather chair, and, like he always did when he came here, reflected. What was it that George had told him? Something he hadn't heard in a long time. Probably not since grade school, when they studied North American History. The question plagued him for several minutes, until it came to him, piece by piece, each word taking on new and profound meaning as he remembered them; "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have tied them to another…"
He suddenly realized what those words had meant. They were no longer simply words he would need to know for a test, or an entrance exam into the officer corps, but rather a philosophy, a form of government, a way of life. Those who had written it, as he remembered had far less reason for their actions then in their time, than Preston did for the actions he was going to take now, in his time. He slowly stood up, out of his leather chair, and took down the UED flag, rolled it as he would have an old rug, and tossed it onto the chair. He called up the videophone, and rang up George Churchill.
"Well, hello Alex!" George greeted him warmly from the parliamentary chambers of the state of Britain.
"Yes, George, hello to you too…and more importantly, what do you need me to do?"
"I never thought you would ask…."
Executor Zaratan felt his innards rise in his body as the shuttle dropped into freefall. He was descending to the newly re-conquered planet of Havashar. It was a worthless world. 90% of it was desert, void of life of any kind yet known to the Protoss, however, the New Conclave felt that it was necessary. Even with Artanis in charge, the Conclave still thought like its predecessor under Aldaris. The Zerg in this part of the Sector were leaderless and scattered, no real match for the veteran Protoss warriors still burning over the destruction of most of their once vast Empire. Even now, 4 years after the defeat of the UED fleet, Aiur was still charred and mostly desolate with scattered bands of Zerg pillaging the countryside, murdering Protoss outposts.
But even among the marauding Zerg there was some organization. Kerrigan could not hope to spread her influence this far, but nor were there cerebrates or overlords, simply Zerglings, Hydralisks, and every now and then, the occasional Ultralisk. But not singly, or in small groups, but large, roving bands, that strategized, and seemed to plan. Something about them disturbed Zaratan. But no cerebral scans of captured Zerg revealed anything. They still functioned at the same brainpower as before and showed no sign of intelligence growth. But nonetheless, Zaratan was disturbed.
Zaratan felt his insides begin to settle back in place as the shuttle came to its landing sequence.
"Executor, we will be landing shortly. Flight Command has warned me that there were Zerg sighted in the area less than an hour ago, but they seem to have wandered off, and there is no sign of them," the pilot's thoughts came crystal clear through the compartments.
"One advantage over the Terrans," Zaratan thought to himself as the air- brakes kicked in.
The harness restraining Zaratan raised and Zaratan followed his escort down the shuttle ramp. The four Zealots making up his escort was really quite pitiful. During the war, Zaratan could have expected twelve or more. But the Terrans weren't the only ones with a bureaucracy. What was their phrase? C'est la vie. That was it. Such is life.
Zaratan looked out towards the east, as the star slowly set behind the parched landscape. It gave of an eerie red glow as it illuminated the harsh dust storm Zaratan to discern far off in the distance. And there below him, looking curiously upwards at the marvels of Protoss construction and technology were the Zerg. Two Hydralisks and a Zergling, looking quizzically up at him. His Zealots began to shift uneasily as they too noticed them, and Zaratan could tell they were eager to engage the Zerg, but Zaratan called them off.
"It's alright, sons of Aiur, I do not believe they will be doing us much harm. They look as lost as the Conclave."
This grew several chuckles form the escort, who noticeably relaxed as Zaratan calmly began the trek inside the complex to begin the rebuilding of Protoss civilization upon Havashar.
"William Terrence Walker III. What a dumbass name," the owner of that name wondered aloud as he sat staring at the endless horizon of Nimaras, the last true stronghold of the UED in the Koprulu Sector.
"Hey, no argument here," piped in Harold Jenkins, the man next to him, guarding the next two feet of trenchworks.
"Yeah, but still, you don't have to die with that name."
"That is true. But Harold Randolph Jenkins isn't far and away better."
"Randolph? Is that really your middle name?"
"Yes it is."
"And to think, I felt bad for myself, Randolph." And with that, William Terrence Walker III burst out laughing. It wasn't particularly funny, but out here on the perimeter, even a name like Harold Randolph Jenkins was hilarious, because it broke up the monotony of staring at the horizon.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up 'Terrence'."
And with that, one of those awkward silences fell between them, neither one knowing really what to say next, because there was no obvious continuation to their conversation. Walker simply let out a few more snorts of laughter at 'Randolph,' and resumed looking out towards the horizon, at the shapeless blobs that became wild, fanciful objects, like elephants and dinosaurs if one looked at them long enough. Trees, hills, mountains, flowers all combined to create a menagerie of designs in growing shadows.
As night fell, William looked up, into the pristine heavens and looked at the innumerable stars that dotted the sky. He picked out the star around which Korhal orbited, and the star for Char, where Kerrigan plotted, and Aiur's star, and that of Shakuras. And lastly, Walker looked for the Sun. 60,000 light-years away, it boggled his mind. The light he saw beaming from the Sun was 60,000 years old, it gave him some perspective on his own life, that the light he was looking at was older than civilization itself. But God only knew what was happening on Earth now, let alone 60,000 years ago…
This one was much different. Flames whipped across the screen, and between surges of violent inferno, Preston could see people running through the streets screaming, carrying babies, only to be gunned down by someone off camera. The camera man walked forward, and panned up. The unmistakable hull of a battlecruiser loomed above the burning city. Again, the camera man zoomed in. There emblazoned on the side, was the symbol of the UED, the Eagle and Lighting. The camera looked down at the motionless bodies and slowly moved away. Preston watched more video of UED soldiers calmly slaughtering the inhabitants of the un-named city. The disk ran towards the end, and the camera panned up one final time, showing an old, burned, road sign, reading WELCOME TO AUGUSTGRAD.
Preston walked away from the telescreen and walked into his office. The UED flag hung from the wall, given to him by the President of the UED himself, Arnold Johnson. Preston looked at the pictures on the wall, pictures of wartime friends, many now lost in the folds of time, dead, missing, or out of touch. Preston supposed, that being the high-ranking man he was, he could have found them, but he never had. He sat down in the antique leather chair, and, like he always did when he came here, reflected. What was it that George had told him? Something he hadn't heard in a long time. Probably not since grade school, when they studied North American History. The question plagued him for several minutes, until it came to him, piece by piece, each word taking on new and profound meaning as he remembered them; "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have tied them to another…"
He suddenly realized what those words had meant. They were no longer simply words he would need to know for a test, or an entrance exam into the officer corps, but rather a philosophy, a form of government, a way of life. Those who had written it, as he remembered had far less reason for their actions then in their time, than Preston did for the actions he was going to take now, in his time. He slowly stood up, out of his leather chair, and took down the UED flag, rolled it as he would have an old rug, and tossed it onto the chair. He called up the videophone, and rang up George Churchill.
"Well, hello Alex!" George greeted him warmly from the parliamentary chambers of the state of Britain.
"Yes, George, hello to you too…and more importantly, what do you need me to do?"
"I never thought you would ask…."
Executor Zaratan felt his innards rise in his body as the shuttle dropped into freefall. He was descending to the newly re-conquered planet of Havashar. It was a worthless world. 90% of it was desert, void of life of any kind yet known to the Protoss, however, the New Conclave felt that it was necessary. Even with Artanis in charge, the Conclave still thought like its predecessor under Aldaris. The Zerg in this part of the Sector were leaderless and scattered, no real match for the veteran Protoss warriors still burning over the destruction of most of their once vast Empire. Even now, 4 years after the defeat of the UED fleet, Aiur was still charred and mostly desolate with scattered bands of Zerg pillaging the countryside, murdering Protoss outposts.
But even among the marauding Zerg there was some organization. Kerrigan could not hope to spread her influence this far, but nor were there cerebrates or overlords, simply Zerglings, Hydralisks, and every now and then, the occasional Ultralisk. But not singly, or in small groups, but large, roving bands, that strategized, and seemed to plan. Something about them disturbed Zaratan. But no cerebral scans of captured Zerg revealed anything. They still functioned at the same brainpower as before and showed no sign of intelligence growth. But nonetheless, Zaratan was disturbed.
Zaratan felt his insides begin to settle back in place as the shuttle came to its landing sequence.
"Executor, we will be landing shortly. Flight Command has warned me that there were Zerg sighted in the area less than an hour ago, but they seem to have wandered off, and there is no sign of them," the pilot's thoughts came crystal clear through the compartments.
"One advantage over the Terrans," Zaratan thought to himself as the air- brakes kicked in.
The harness restraining Zaratan raised and Zaratan followed his escort down the shuttle ramp. The four Zealots making up his escort was really quite pitiful. During the war, Zaratan could have expected twelve or more. But the Terrans weren't the only ones with a bureaucracy. What was their phrase? C'est la vie. That was it. Such is life.
Zaratan looked out towards the east, as the star slowly set behind the parched landscape. It gave of an eerie red glow as it illuminated the harsh dust storm Zaratan to discern far off in the distance. And there below him, looking curiously upwards at the marvels of Protoss construction and technology were the Zerg. Two Hydralisks and a Zergling, looking quizzically up at him. His Zealots began to shift uneasily as they too noticed them, and Zaratan could tell they were eager to engage the Zerg, but Zaratan called them off.
"It's alright, sons of Aiur, I do not believe they will be doing us much harm. They look as lost as the Conclave."
This grew several chuckles form the escort, who noticeably relaxed as Zaratan calmly began the trek inside the complex to begin the rebuilding of Protoss civilization upon Havashar.
"William Terrence Walker III. What a dumbass name," the owner of that name wondered aloud as he sat staring at the endless horizon of Nimaras, the last true stronghold of the UED in the Koprulu Sector.
"Hey, no argument here," piped in Harold Jenkins, the man next to him, guarding the next two feet of trenchworks.
"Yeah, but still, you don't have to die with that name."
"That is true. But Harold Randolph Jenkins isn't far and away better."
"Randolph? Is that really your middle name?"
"Yes it is."
"And to think, I felt bad for myself, Randolph." And with that, William Terrence Walker III burst out laughing. It wasn't particularly funny, but out here on the perimeter, even a name like Harold Randolph Jenkins was hilarious, because it broke up the monotony of staring at the horizon.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up 'Terrence'."
And with that, one of those awkward silences fell between them, neither one knowing really what to say next, because there was no obvious continuation to their conversation. Walker simply let out a few more snorts of laughter at 'Randolph,' and resumed looking out towards the horizon, at the shapeless blobs that became wild, fanciful objects, like elephants and dinosaurs if one looked at them long enough. Trees, hills, mountains, flowers all combined to create a menagerie of designs in growing shadows.
As night fell, William looked up, into the pristine heavens and looked at the innumerable stars that dotted the sky. He picked out the star around which Korhal orbited, and the star for Char, where Kerrigan plotted, and Aiur's star, and that of Shakuras. And lastly, Walker looked for the Sun. 60,000 light-years away, it boggled his mind. The light he saw beaming from the Sun was 60,000 years old, it gave him some perspective on his own life, that the light he was looking at was older than civilization itself. But God only knew what was happening on Earth now, let alone 60,000 years ago…