Tracer fire and longbolt missiles crossed the sky, chasing after the shadows of enemy fliers, while the deafening boom of the arclite shock cannon bombarded the advancing waves of enemy ground forces with high-explosive rounds. Infantry soldiers, suited up in heavy power-armor as soon as they heard the first shot, grabbed their weapons off of the waiting gun racks, before rushing to their assigned bunkers, preparing for the coming onslaught.
The former Magistrate, now the Commander, pressed himself up against the wall, as three red-armored marines (courtesy of the Sons of Korhal, part of his new security detail) double-timed it past him, their C-14 'Impaler' gauss rifles at the ready. Once they had past, the Commander resumed his march. It certainly didn't take long after the fall of the major Mar Saran cities for the zerg to appear outside his office. According to reports, the aliens had now overrun a vast majority of the planet's surface, and both he, and the remaining Confederate troops stationed here were having the fight of their life to hold them back.
However, he knew that trying to hold back this…swarm of zerg was a fight that they couldn't win. But it didn't take someone of his intelligence to figure that one out. The numbers of the enemy were boundless, and their supplies seemingly unlimited. His beleaguered defenders could hold the line for now, but soon they would have to evacuate.
Stopping in front of a pair of doors, the Commander looked down, inserting his hand into a waiting palm-reader. A green light moved up and down his palm, the computer matching the identification with the fingerprint files on record. After a short time, an affirmative beep was heard.
"Access granted. Good evening, Magistrate." The computerized voice greeted him warmly, before the two doors slid open.
The Commanders old office wasn't really anything worth noting. A polished mahogany wood desk stared back at him, with two cushioned chairs in front for visitors. A raised, black-leather chair sat behind the desk, while the screen of a computer console, it's circuitry integrated into the desk sat idle, off to the side. The far wall behind the desk was actually not a wall at all, but a massive plasteel window. Normally, this overlooked the capital of Mar Sara, Mar Sara City. However, all it overlooked now was a scorched ruin, as his troops fought a desperate battle to hold the line against an impossible enemy. He crossed over, taking a seat in the leather chair. Tapping a few buttons on his desk, the LED screen on his console lit up, infused with new life.
"Adjutant." He commanded, before being greeted with a holographic image of his adjutant unit. The stopped for a moment, as a nearby blast from an arclite siege tank shook the building. "Give me a status report."
"Commander." The adjutant began, its cybernetic brain making several thousand assessments and calculations in the blink of an eye. "According to reports, the zerg have expanded their sphere of influence at an astronomical rate, overrunning an estimated eighty-two percent of the planet's surface. Due to the evacuation, civilian causalities have remained minimal, however, military causalities have been on the rise." The cyborg continued on in further detail, detailing exact numbers and statistics about casualty rates and troop movements before moving on. "According to intercepted transmissions, Tarsonis has deemed this planet lost, and General Duke has ordered a full-scale evacuation of all Confederate forces. Estimations indicate that they will have completely pulled back from the surface within four to seven standard hours, providing their defenses withstand the zerg attack."
"I see." The Commander stroked his chin, running his hands down the thin goatee that decorated his features. "I suppose the good general has had just about enough of us 'damn fringe-world yokels'." He chuckled, imitating the General's voice to a somewhat frightening degree. Serves him right. He was about to say more, but a whirr and a beep from his adjutant cut him off.
"Incoming transmission."
The Commander looked over, pressing a button on his desk. The screen on his console lit up again, before displaying the image of a fresh-faced, clean shaven young man in a dark naval uniform.
"Commander." He began, saluting briskly. "This is Lieutenant Matthew Horner, of the transport Cormorant. We've been dispatched by Arcturus Mengsk to facilitate the extraction of your remaining forces, and will be arriving within the hour."
"Very good, lieutenant." The Commander responded, a little relieved to be informed that Mengsk hadn't just decided to leave him to die. "Do try to hurry, though. It's getting awfully hairy out here." As if to emphasize his point, the force of a nearby blast rocked the building, sending dust from the ceiling, as well as the oil portrait of the Commander upon his appointment, falling to the floor.
"Of course, sir. Stand by for our arrival." Lieutenant Horner nodded once, before cutting the transmission off with a push of a button. Alone again, the Commander looked over to his adjutant again.
"Let's move on, Adjutant." He said, continuing his discussion from before. "Do the Confederates suspect anything about the Sons' presence in the system?"
Another beep and a whir. "Your tenure as Colonial Magistrate is suspended, pending an official investigation of your affiliation with the Sons of Korhal."
"Is that so?" He responded. "I guess it can't be helped." That was too bad, really. He had always thought that the title 'Magistrate' had a nice ring to it. But, there were much more important things to consider. Things like making sure that he was still alive the next day.
"Receiving incoming transmission…"
Without being prompted, the Commander's console flashed again. He raised an eyebrow, noticing the familiar face that stared back at him.
"Hey, man" Marshall James Raynor began. "Arcturus' boys sprung me from the prison ship…" He let off a toothy smirk, to which the Commander shook his head, but couldn't help but grin. Jim Raynor was the very definition of trouble. Former marine, turned deserter, turned outlaw, that man was a hardened bastard topped with hardened bastard sauce and filled with hardened bastard filling. When he first arrived to this post, the Commander had wondered why the hell his predecessor thought it would be a good idea to make someone like him the Marshall, and even considered finding a replacement. After a few weeks, however, he quickly understood why. Crime rate across the colony remained incredibly low throughout his tenure. Nobody dared go against the law if they knew that Marshall Raynor was going to be coming for them.
A soft-spoken, hard-drinking son-of-a-bitch, Raynor didn't have to prove anything to anyone. His record and reputation did all the talking for him. And when he did have to get involved, he never once had to use his gun. Ever. In the end, he was a damn good Marshall.
He went on. "Apparently, they're as frustrated with the Confederates as we are."
Wasn't that the understatement of the decade?
"I know their reputation, but they seem to be on the level." Raynor raised his eyebrow, as if noticing something on his console. "I think Arcturus wanted to speak with you."
No sooner had he said that, the Commander was greeted with another portrait appearing on the side of the console screen.
"Commander." Arcturus Mengsk began. "Mar Sara is almost completely overrun by the zerg."
The Commander raised his eyebrow. He hadn't noticed. Arcturus continued.
"The Confederates are abandoning the planet, and so are we. However, there is one more thing I'd like to do before we leave."
And here it comes, the Commander mused. The reason he was still sitting in his office on this dying world, as his people fought a losing battle to keep the aliens back.
"I want you to raid this colony's Confederate outpost and retrieve whatever design or weapons schematics that you can find in their networks." A pause for breath. "With the chaos of the Confederates' evacuation, you shouldn't have any trouble getting in or out of their installation."
Well, that seemed fair enough. The Confederates holed up at the 'top-secret' Jacobs Installation probably had a couple things that they weren't exactly willing to tell their colonial friends what they doing, and only an idiot would buy what the propaganda said. Well, it couldn't hurt to look.
Raynor nodded, as if he and the Commander were on the same page.
"I'm into it."
The hangar bay of the Cormorant wasn't exactly something worth noting. Converted and used interchangeably with the cargo bay, it was cramped, crowded, and claustrophobic. The transport's single dropship stood in the middle, surrounded by stacks of cargo containers, while the assembled marines and firebats gathered around, jostling for room with each other as they gathered around the portable holo-projector.
"You will enter the base through the main entrance, located here." The Commander announced aloud, gesturing to the area with his finger. "The Confederates are in the middle of evacuating their forces, and cannot spare many men to protect what's left. Resistance will be light. Once you're inside, you're to find some kind of main access hub, and download anything and everything you can onto these portable discs. He held up a single portable disc, showing it to the gathered soldiers. "After which, you can exit the way you entered, where the dropship will take you into orbit." He looked around him at the visored faces of the soldiers. "Simple as that."
"How the hell are we gonna know what one of them 'access hubs' look like?" A marine asked gruffly, holding a smouldering Rebel Red cigar between his thumb and pointer. He was leaning against one of the cargo containers, his gauss rifle and helmet up against the side.
"It shouldn't be too hard." The Commander answered, turning to look at the one who asked. "It's probably going to be the largest computer in the base, in an area that's well-guarded. So, if you find a lot of confeds, you're heading in the right direction."
The marine nodded, before sticking the cigar back in his mouth, apparently satisfied with the answer.
The Commander waited for further questions. Noticing there was none, he nodded.
"Alright, boys." Jim Raynor cut in, unfolding his arms. "Saddle up. Time we paid our Confederate friends a good visit." He scooped up his own helmet and gauss rifle, as the assembled soldiers went about getting their kit together, and proceeding to the waiting dropship.
"You don't sound very worried there, Commander." Raynor noted, approaching the Commander.
"I'm not." The Commander admitted, looking up at the marshal's armored form. "The premise is simple enough. Light resistance." He reached over, thumbing the switch on the projector, switching it off. "Nothing you and your boys can't handle."
Raynor perked his eyebrow, the edges of his mouth forming a sarcastic smile. "Maybe you shouldn't put too much trust in my skills, Commander."
The Commander tiled his head to the side. "You doubting yourself, cowboy?"
Jim chuckled. "Never." With that, he turned on his heel, and began to march to the dropship.
"Raynor." He turned. The Commander held up a metal hip flask, before tossing it over to his subordinate.
"Never heave home without it."