Chapter One: Five Minutes 'till drop

"For five hundred bucks I'll kill anyone you want."

Captain Nathan Algren, The Last Samurai

Onboard dropship T-34

They could feel the dropship shuddering as it entered Aiur's atmosphere, shaking under the steep dive. All one hundred and twenty marines of Company Zulu-1, Z-1, felt the nose of the dropship T-34 descend sharply down, steadily balancing itself as it began dropping faster. And all of them were nervous, as they stared out of the portholes, looking at the peaceful green and brown mass of land being consumed by purple Creep.

First lieutenant Adam Jones led one squadron of the men on the ship, all of them "traitors" to the Terran Dominion, men who decided to remain with Jim Raynor, and not join the new empire that was being formed out of the old Terran Confederacy. They were all from Mar Sara, hardened veterans of Humanity's tireless warring.

Their armor consisted of newly issued blue CMC-400 armor, spit-polished clean after the issue from Umoja, whose government was sympathetic Raynor's Raiders. Each Confederate Marine Corp-400 Exosuit provided a marine with numerous features, including full NBC protection and minimum protection from 8mm rounds fired at ten meters. Nobody had considered how easily diamond edged Zerg claws could cut CMC armor.

Standard issued Gauss rifles laid in their laps or in their hands, each one oiled and lubricated hours before, and now kept at ready. A long, thin, strong cord was attached to each of the gun's handle, snaking its way to the armor, preventing the loss of weapons in battle. The C-14 Impaler rifle fired supersonic, 3.5 centimeter long "spikes" in volleys of three, with each bullet designed to penetrate through armor, carapace, or flesh. Every Raider was equipped with twenty-five clips of these precision rounds, as well as five clips of exploding "Dookie" rounds that worked well against massed enemies.

The Sarians sat on one side of the ship, the visors of their helmets opened, stone cold, quietly chatting and whispering as they waited to be dropped. Jones smiled. They were his boys, disciplined and professional. Waiting for the signal to drop.

Not like the boys on the other side of the ship, he thought, as he turned his head to look at the men sitting on the other side.

"Mercs" they called them, buff, unshaven young men who believed that they could kill anyone who tried to threaten them. The mercenary armor was like a colorful party, like the Domingo Alto parades Jones had seen as a kid. Some of them, former members of the various defunct Confederacy squadrons, had faded yellow, black, and orange colored armor, marking each of the defunct CMC squadrons. Epsilon, Omega, Delta, Alpha...they were all represented.

Jones smiled. He remembered how easy Confederate Epsilon scouts were to kill, trying to blend into the dull colored world, his home of Mar Sara. The yellow-marked Epsilon troops had not lasted long when Mar Sara's colonists began to revolt.

Others mercenaries had spray painted their armor to match what they thought Protoss jungles would look like, idiots who forgot that they were going to land on the flamboyant colors of purple and red of Zerg surroundings. Many of them had armor that was so battered that he could hardly see them lasting under the Zerg's claws.

Their guns were unusual too. Some had Gauss rifles, older versions or modified versions to fit each merc's need, with tally marks on the guns to show how many kills they had gotten. Some had a grenade launcher on the front, some had a bayonet. Other mercs had brought whatever gun they could scrounge up from the pawn shops of the ragged fringe worlds. Shotguns, rifles, and even a CMC "Gibber" were cradled like babies in the laps of the mercs.

They laughed and cursed loudly, chatting about how many Zerg they were going to slaughter; their discourse was arranged in such a way to overcome each man's psychological, internal fears, with each trying to quell doubts by boisterously proclaiming how many Zerg they were going to rape of lives with a spray of lead, as they puffed on cigars, providing a choking cloud of smoke inside the cramped dropship.

Jones sneered, choking on the smoke. They would not last in battle for long. To hell with them, I'm looking after my own men.

Their commander's voice crackled through the intercom system hooked up in the ship, and also through each man's helmet, through the ICD. They listened carefully to what Raynor had to say, ending with his "Good luck." And for once, the mercs shut up, soberly picking up their own guns and sitting on the bench. One opened his visor, spit out his cigarette, grabbed a paper bag from a storage box, vomiting the remains of his meals into it. His buddies laughed, slapping him on the back. Jones watched, cold stare hidden by his visor. Probably the remains of the last meal you'll ever get to see, piece of filth. He watched, disgusted as the man wiped his crap on his armor, staining the already rusted metal. Discipline. Courage. Honor. That's what they taught us in the Academy, not how to fuck Zerg with bullets. Mother. I hope these idiots all die.

A new voice crackled through the intercom after Raynor's speech.

"Five minutes 'till drop boys," a faintly humorous female voice told them, one of the two pilots of the dropship. The other one joined in. "Anything you want to shout out or do, do it now, before we enter the atmosphere. It's gonna be 'shake and bake' after this."

One of his marines began saying a Hail Mary, quietly, under his breath, but the ship was so quiet that everyone could hear him.

"What the hell is he doing?" one of the mercs asked, his unshaven face and pudgy nose matched his equally ugly, dirty Gauss rifle.

"He's saying a prayer, something out of the old Earth religions, Christianity." Another squadron commander, Patrick O'toole, said, eyeing the merc nervously.

"Jesus," the merc responded. It made Jones sneer even more, seeing that he didn't even realize he was saying a name of one of the people that was associated with Christianity. Good. The dumber, the less I have to deal with these assholes.

A jolting bump brought everyone's bottoms up an inch before they settled back down. Atmospheric landing was never fun.

One of the mercenary officers nodded to Jones. Guess it's time to review the mission briefings, Jones thought. He nodded back to the other lieutenant, Bo "Hornet" Nacdle. The man's boyish, almost fair face was unlike the ugly features of mercenaries; only the speckled, salt-and-pepper beard made his seem like a mercenary, but the man didn't fit it with the typical profile. Grey flecked eyes looked straight into Jones, and it seemed like he was reading his mind.

He can't be a telepath, he's just a goddamn merc. Jones' thoughts were interrupted by a prick of surprise, but he had an odd feeling that that emotion hadn't come off of him...this guy's definitely the oddball.

It intimidated him, the man. Jones didn't know what it was, but there was something about him he didn't like, because he didn't understand. And information about Nacdle was scarce; none of the other officers knew anything about him. They said he was a NBK, military slang for a natural born killer, who had worked up the ranks during the Morian Mining Revolts and the Confederate Marine Corps.

Jones didn't give a damn. The man was a merc. A piece of filth. Like the prostitute I screwed before coming over here.

Jones cleared his throat. Sixty of the one hundred and twenty men looked up at him, all of them loyal members of Raynor's Raiders. The other sixty were mercs. "Just want to let you know guys, what Raynor said was right. If we can get this mission done, we're going to take a visit to some Protoss amusement parks, meet some hot Protoss women, and get the hell out of here. You know what our objectives are. You know what to do. We won't have to worry about Zerg anymore, alright?" Jones smiled as he was greeted with a loud "No Fear!" from his men, the slogan they lived by through the SoK campaigns on Antiga Prime and Mar Sara. Give them time to relax before they face a hell-hole.

But they knew he was joking. They were getting straight out and to Umoja after this, back to their homes.

The mercs, on the other hand, were strangely silent. Some fingered their rifles nervously. But then again, Jones thought, they don't have a goddamn home.

"Get done whatever needs to be done," Nacdle, his quiet, rumbling voice almost seemed to sooth the marines into calmness. The mercenaries and their squad commanders nodded, knowing that Nacdle was their chief. Both first lieutenants could feel the disunity that separated the two groups, as they curiously surveyed each other, as if they were worlds apart.

Mentally, Jones ran through the squadron's briefings by a colonel on his home battlecruiser, the Sun Arc:

"You'll be part of a task force of 144 dropships. All of them will be landing on the outer defenses of the Overmind. Each ship will have eight squadrons, composed of fifteen men. You officers will be in charge of one of these squads."

Zulu, Jones' company, was standard, with 120 men in all, though most ships were lacking in Raynor's Raiders; mercenaries had been hired to fill in the gaps. Ships were divided between the Raiders and mercenary squadrons, since both groups didn't want to fight alongside each other. Hired mercenaries and Raynor's Raiders had fought pitched battles against each other during the fall of the Confederacy, and Jones felt he had seen some men pillaging their way into Antiga...

Zulu felt the jolt and bump from entering the atmosphere, knocking Jones and Nacdle off their feet. As Jones struggled to his feet, he found himself being lifted up and onto his boots by Nacdle, who had already recovered. He gave a grim smile Jones, and met in a corner with his three other merc squadron commanders. Jones did the same, reviewing the mission with his three other commanders, from the Raiders.

More of the memorized battle plan ran its way into Jones' head from the colonel, from the debriefing room, as the commanding officers chatted:

"Specifically, Jones, Zulu will land on the Creep by a Zerg Hive Cluster. Yeah, those bizarre structures that produce Zerg. Kill it. It'll hold off your lead for a while, but keep on at it. Seal off the cluster and then began to destroy it; call in airstrikes while blowing up any defensive structures, like the Spore colonies and the Sunken colonies. Be careful of the goddamn root, okay? You won't have enough firepower to kill the Hive on their own, but damage it substantially to let the Protoss and Terran ships destroy it. After your mission is complete, evac'd by dropships to a safer location; wait for the next orders."

Nacdle had already taken the lead.

"All right, let's get at 'em. Lieutenant Jones, looks like your going first with your men."

Jones nodded.

"2 minutes 'till drop," the cool calm voice of the pilot said. Outside, they could hear the battle, as the Gemini missiles of wraiths began exploding the unlucky few Zerg flyers and Overlords still in the air. Something violently rocked the ship, throwing men off their seats.

"Shit, what was that?" one of the mercs said. Jones looked out the window. Below, three or four kilometers on the ground, was one of those anti-aircraft Spore colonies, with several more Sunken and Spore colonies defending the massive Hive structure. What the heck? Wasn't the air support supposed to take out all anti-aircraft weapons? Jones wondered. He could see Zerglings, infamous for their speediness and feral claws, running in a line, waiting for the men to come.

"30 seconds 'till drop," the pilot said, seemingly unaware at the biological flak that was coming from the ground.

"Ok! I'm leading my squadron out! Z-1A, follow me!" Jones shouted over the din of the men screaming. They wanted to make it off the transport alive. The dropship descended faster.

Jones's squadron followed, fifteen men (including him) in the blue armor. Airborne landings were simple: they could jump out at a maximum of 500 meters without damage to themselves and the armor. The CMC-400 armor was specially designed to take the brunt of the bone-crunching impact, so the men's bodies would stay unbroken in their protective shell.

"Hatch is opening, boys," the female pilot's voice crackled again through the intercom, "altitude is 250 meters. Have a happy fall."

The second pilot screamed something vulgar. "Portside Annie, get portside. We're losing pressure. Goddamn flak!"

The "hatch" where they would drop out of was in the middle of the floor of the ship, and as it opened, Jones could see the battle already unfolding; Spore colonies were firing on the dozens of transports dropping troops.

Jones jumped out the hatch with four other of his squad, their rubass visors down to shield them from the pieces of dust that could get in their eyes and distract them. The dropship "threw" out the marines, looking like a strangely shaped horse shoe crab ejecting out sand from underneath it. More and more marines jumped out. As Jones looked up, he could see the dropship being hit by a Spore colony continuously, a green ball of biological ooze, smattering before another ball came, and another... That ship isn't going to last before my guys can all get out, Jones realized.

The two pilots realized this as well, though they were told something different by debrief. T-type dropships had been heavily modified to cram in a full company of marines, and reinforced with NeoSteel armor that was usually placed on battlecruisers. But the Spore colony's balls of acid though, still ate through the armor as quickly as the unmodified dropships.

The transport tried to pull out, but the final green ball hit the tail, breaking it off. One last drop of five marines, mercs by the color of their armor, jumped out, and the dropship began a slow and circling descend to the ground, with small fires burning in the hull. With deafening thud, it hit the ground a few kilometers from the Hive, and laid there, silent. Zerglings began to surround it, eagerly wanting to hunt prey. Jones also hit the ground with a thud, though it was cushioned by his armor. He looked through his visor, his sterile robot-like form hiding his staring disbelief at the crash.

They were going to have to change their mission plans.