Infestation-Part One

This is a short story I wrote last year set in the Starcraft universe. Perhaps that's a bit nerdy but whatever. I will add each part over the next few days. Enjoy!

Infestation
Day One
Sergeant Francis Wilson scanned the perimeter of the small mining colony on the moon of Pyrux. The parched, brown soil stretched onward for a few kilometers until it reached the hills surrounding the colony. The hills were an interesting change of scenery, transitioning the landscape from barren, brown dirt to barren, brown rock. As Wilson looked to his right, he observed the only reason humanity had any interest in the miserable moon. There was a small field of the reflective, light blue mineral deposits needed throughout the Koprulu sector as a base metal for manufacturing. As security chief of the colony on Pyrux, orbiting the planet Telarus IV, Wilson was responsible for managing the small squad of soldiers that safeguarded the mining operation.

As if there was much to take, Wilson mused. The colony contained a few supply depots for storing spare parts, military supplies, and mining equipment. A large barracks provided quarters for the colony’s small guard force. The aging rectangular buildings did not add much to the aesthetic appeal of the area, though at least they were black and gray instead of brown.

The most interesting feature was the circular command center dominating the center of the colony. The building was capable of lifting off from the ground using its internal thruster systems, allowing it to move to a new location once the mineral deposits of a region were exhausted. The barracks was similarly equipped and would move along with the command center when required. The supply depots would be dismantled and reassembled at the new mining site. One of the advantages to small mining colonies was their flexibility.

“Sergeant Wilson to squad, time for the shift change,” Wilson radioed through his combat armor’s communication system. Wilson began to walk back toward the barracks, the armored boots of his CMC-300 Powered Combat Suit clunking resoundingly on the ground. It was time to awaken Corporal Almuda and his men for the night watch. Wilson sighed. His tenure as the colony’s security chief had not been one of the more exciting times of his life.

Other than repelling the occasional pirate raiding party, there was little to do but mediate disputes among the colony’s workers. The only joy he got out of this post was when he could recklessly hurl one of the installation’s two Vulture Hover Bikes around the colony’s grounds at breakneck speeds. The Vultures were fast moving vehicles that used to make patrolling the perimeter an exhilarating pleasure rather than a chore. However, the colony’s administrator, Edward Hackken, had restricted hover bike use to three days a week in order to reduce fuel costs. Wilson made a mental note to complain to Hackken again about the prohibition in the morning. Wilson would of course claim that the bike patrols were needed for protecting the colony rather than his sanity.

Hackken had been foisted on the colony by the Kel-Morian Combine, an organization that secured most of the mining operations throughout the sector with a large private army. One year ago the Combine had sent a dropship to the colony with a small detachment of troops, asking if the colony would like to join as a member in exchange for protection. The price of membership was sixty percent of the colony’s mining income, but Wilson and the civilian management had agreed to pay the fees without question. Otherwise, a group of unusually well trained and equipped "pirates" would have sacked the colony within a week.

Wilson had to admit that Combine membership had provided a few benefits for his department. Corporal Almuda and his three well trained Marines were sent to assist in the colony’s defense, along with two Goliath assault walkers and a somewhat dated Arclite Siege Tank. The Goliath walkers were equipped with powerful twin autocannons and a shoulder mounted anti-air missile system. More than a few pirate raiding ships had been fatally surprised to discover that the colony boasted anti-air defenses.

The tank boasted a long ranged 80mm cannon, sufficient for destroying most vehicles that pirates could field. The newer Arclite models were capable of transforming into an artillery piece capable of firing 120mm explosive rounds an incredible range. Unfortunately, the Combine had neglected to send a trained pilot along with their tank, so Wilson had never gotten to see how the vehicle worked in combat.

However, the best weapon provided was the Kel-Morian Combine’s insignia on the roof of the command center. Any scavenger or pirate who saw that knew they were risking retaliation from the most powerful non-Confederate organization in the sector. Even the Confederacy, the governing body of the Koprulu sector ruling nearly a dozen major worlds, rarely interfered with the Kel-Morians.

Wilson arrived at the boxy barracks and nodded to the other three men of his command who were returning from their perimeter watch positions. He approached the west entrance gate of the barracks, which led into the small armory room for his squad. Entering the passcode into the glowing security panel set next to the door, he prepared for a long wait. It was a ponderous process, the motors of the gate whining with the effort of raising the heavy portal three meters. Wilson had filed a repair request weeks ago, but apparently Hackken hadn’t got around to approving the order.

After the door finally finished ascending, Wilson’s men moved into the barrack’s armory. On one side the small room contained crates of the 8mm spiked ammunition used by C-14 Gauss Rifles, such as those Wilson’s squad carried. The other side held weapon racks and berths for recharging the powered combat suits needed for moving about on the outside of the moon. Wilson placed his Gauss Rifle on the weapons rack and moved into one of the berths to wait for the barrack’s technicians to assist him in removing his armor. The armor was essential for protection from solar radiation and weapons fire, but that didn’t make it any less of a pain to remove after a long patrol. Wilson always felt like a clumsy toddler who needed help taking off a coat.

“Hey Sarge, what’s the story on the Vultures?” asked Robert Hotchkins, a lithe man who also enjoyed rocketing at breakneck speeds around the colony. “Are we going to start patrols with them again?”

“I’ll talk to Hackken again in the morning about it. Don’t get your hopes up though, the man’s job is to say no.”

“He’s pretty good at it,” griped Patrick Mulheeny, a tall, bulky man with a thick brown beard. “We haven’t been fully equipped since he arrived.”

“As if there’s a reason to keep us armed,” muttered Federico Diego, a dour man with a swarthy complexion. “The Combine keeps their resources for their bigger mining operations. The ones that have vespene gas refineries along with mineral fields. Smaller operations like us don’t matter.”

“Shut up, Diego,” barked Mulheeny, craning his neck upward to glare at Diego over the shoulders of the technician loosening the seals of his armor. “You always think you’re so damned smart. We just need someone who cares about us in charge.”

“Diego’s right,” said Wilson. “It’s more efficient to harvest the mineral resources that are near gas deposits. The Combine is out to make the biggest profit possible. Defending little facilities like ours doesn’t pad their bottom line. Caring does not enter into their calculations.”

The technician assisting Wilson finished unlocking his armor’s seals and removed the torso and leg portions. Wilson stretched his arms in the air and smiled. His muscles always felt cramped when they were trapped in the bulky shell. Perhaps it was his age; he had lost the spryness of youth when he turned forty two years ago. Wilson glanced around and saw that the rest of his squad was freed as well. They appeared bored rather than relieved.

“I’ll see you men bright and early in the morning for another exciting day here on Pyrux,” said Wilson with a smirk. Diego rolled his eyes and filed out to his bunk, Mulheeny and Hotchkins following him.

Wilson walked with the technician team to the east armory to brief Almuda. Corporal Almuda and his three men were preparing to suit up for their nightly patrol, checking their gear and weapons to ensure all was in order. The technicians hurried over to ready their combat suits. The night patrol’s shoulder plates were painted green, the color worn by Kel-Morian Combine soldiers. Wilson suspected this was to remind the civilians about who was funding their security. Just in case the giant Combine symbol stamped on the command center wasn’t reminder enough. Almuda’s team was composed of former criminals, forced to undergo Neural Resocialization treatments to become defenders of the Combine’s interests. Wilson wished that his security team displayed the same zeal that Almuda’s men exhibited. He had no idea how the treatments worked, but the results were clear.

“Sir!” Almuda said, executing a sharp salute.

“At ease, Corporal,” said Wilson, returning the salute.

“Any orders for our patrol, Sir?” asked Almuda.

“Same as usual. Just another day of watching dirt baked by the sun,” said Wilson. He then remembered one detail, “Wait, one of the civilians took a SCV out to the north ridge to explore a potential mineral deposit. He should be returning sometime in the early morning. Don’t shoot him!”

“Acknowledged, Sir,” said Almuda. The technicians were finished strapping the combat suits on to the marines. “Permission to depart for patrol?”

“Granted,” said Wilson. Despite his previous sentiments, he wished Almuda would show a little less deference to him. He was just security chief of a backwater mining colony, not the commander of Alpha Squadron!

Almuda lowered his helmet’s containment shield, sealing his suit. He gave a wave to Wilson and marched out with his squad, weapons at the ready. Wilson always wondered if Almuda’s squad felt that a legion of marauders was going to land during the five minute gap between patrol changes. He supposed it was the soldierly discipline that his men lacked. He sighed and exited the armory to go to his quarters, giving a nod to the technician team as he departed.

As security chief of the installation, Wilson’s quarters were larger than the other troops. This meant he had room to cram a computer station across from his bunk. Wilson sat down and logged on to the Confederate Network to view the latest security postings from colonies around the sector. He liked to get a feel for the threats that other facilities were facing, so that he could prepare his men for similar attacks.

Four months ago he had noticed that several small mining facilities had been caught by surprise when groups of pirates posed as Confederate prospectors sent to assist the mining operation, then attacked once they were inside the defenses. A small band of marauders tried a similar ploy on Wilson’s base a few weeks later. He allowed the supposed prospector team to enter, but hid his two Goliaths in a position to set up a vicious crossfire. Sure enough, a few minutes after they were permitted inside, the “prospectors” pulled out weapons and began to fire at Wilson’s men. The concealed Goliaths opened up with their autocannons and sliced the pirates apart in moments. Wilson smiled at the memory of the look of utter surprise on the pirate leader’s face.

“Let’s see what’s going on in the sector this week,” muttered Wilson. He scanned the security reports of a few Confederate outposts who reported receiving coordinated attacks from the Sons of Korhal. They were a renegade group out to get revenge on the Confederacy for nuking their home planet after a few anti-Confederate riots had gotten out of hand. Wilson felt they were wasting their time. Even if they somehow managed to overthrow the government, it wouldn’t bring their blasted world back. However, he couldn’t deny that they seemed to be getting results. The number of assaults on Confederate facilities had been rising dramatically as of late.

Wilson was preparing to log off when a new update appeared on his screen, outlined in red to indicate a high priority situation. He brought it up on the monitor. The update showed an image of a fleet of huge space vessels. The ships were sleek and elegant, radiating power. They were longer than Terran Battlecruisers, the capitol ships of most human fleets. Wilson’s mouth dropped when he read the rest of the update. The vessels had just withdrawn from an attempt to assault the Confederate colony on Mar Sara, retreating from a Confederate counter-attack. The fleet had identified themselves as the Protoss before leaping away into deep space. They had already laid waste to the colony of Chau Sara before they had begun moving on Mar Sara, destroying every single outpost in a display of overwhelming firepower.

“What the hell?” said Wilson in a shocked voice. Those ships must have been incredibly powerful. The Confederacy had needed nuclear weapons to destroy Korhal, but these Protoss could manage a similar act from their regular fleet. He felt an unfamiliar feeling of fear. Pirate raids he could understand, they were seeking loot and funds. But what could be the motivation for destroying an entire planet?

As Wilson stared at the image of the mysterious fleet, another security update popped up on his screen. It was another high priority alert. Wilson debated whether he could handle another shock. He elected that it was better to know than worry about it all night. A video came up on his screen showing a haggard looking bearded man.

“This is Marshal Jim Raynor requesting immediate Confederate assistance for the Mar Sara colony. Some critters have destroyed some of the outlying outposts and smaller towns in the last few hours. We need backup now if we want to drive them back. I’m uploading an image of one of the things now.”

Raynor disappeared, replaced by an image of a strange orange creature that seemed precariously balanced on two legs, with four powerful looking arms projecting forward from its body, holding in a forward hunched position. Two of the arms ended in meter long claws. Shorter fangs also protruded forward from its head, looking just as deadly as the claws. Its head and main body was covered by an armored carapace that looked quite thick. The creature seemed to notice whatever was filming it, and it bounded forward on its legs, hopping at the camera. Wilson noticed that the beast’s jumps, despite the clumsy appearance, were incredibly fast. The claws struck forward at Wilson’s face, replacing the video feed with static as the camera was destroyed.

Wilson stared numbly at the computer screen for several minutes. Aliens? Humans had yet to find any life that could be considered sentient in their travels around the Korpulu Sector, and now they’d encountered two races in one day. The Protoss appeared to be far more technologically advanced than humanity, the blue exhaust emanating from the rear of their fleeing space vessels showing that they employed some sort of propulsion mechanism unknown to man. All human ships used chemical fuel that produced orange exhaust. Wilson had no idea what to think of the other alien race. It certainly wouldn’t be able to pilot a ship or vehicle, but those claws looked rather dangerous. Wilson hoped he would not need to personally evaluate their effectiveness. Wilson turned off his computer and settled down on his bunk.

Stop worrying, you fool, Wilson thought. No alien in their right mind would come to Pyrux, not when there are far more valuable planetoids in the neighboring systems. Besides, you’ve got to wake up for patrol again tomorrow. Go to sleep, soldier!

Despite the mental encouragement, it took Wilson a long time to fall asleep. He dreamed of mysterious space vessels destroying planets and fierce alien claws lunging at his face throughout the night.

Continue to Part Two