JUST AN OVERLORD

  By Gavin Jurgens-Fyhrie2

  Overlords, are we. The Kerrigan, heard we. The words to the We,

  carried we.

  Gone, is the Kerrigan. Mad, went the We. Mad, went the we born

  after the Becoming.

  Remembered, some of we.

  The ancient homeworlds, remembered we. The starving young,

  remembered we.

  The fear, remembered we.

  To the We, called we. Saved us, the We. Became, we.

  Long-lived, are we. The language of color and mind, remembered

  we. Count, could we.

  Wept, we. Killed by the not-We, were many. But:

  Not kil ed, were One and One. This one and mate from centuries

  ago.

  While our minds slept, served we. Together when our memories

  returned, were we.

  On the horizon line, wait One and One.

  On one side, the calm embrace of the We. Return, wil the

  Kerrigan. This, know we.

  On the other side, madness.

  Solitude.

  Cling to the horizon line, will we. Dead, are our kin. Dead, are our young.

  The last of our kind, are we.

  One and One.

  * * *

  Ten minutes before his death, Razek gazed out over the new

  home of his Scantid Pirates

  with a sense of supreme accomplishment.

  He stood on the observation deck of the former Tarsonis Ghost

  Academy, a reclining giant

  of black reflective marble on the outside and neosteel on the

  inside. The desiccated grounds of

  the city square framed the academy and the shattered monument

  up front. Only two ragged

  stone feet on a pedestal remained of the tribute to some hero of

  the now-dead Confederacy.

  Five years ago, the zerg had come to Tarsonis, the Confederacy's

  capital world. Bil ions had

  died in a handful of days, by zerg or protoss. Now Tarsonis was a

  ghost world, a channel for

  winds screaming in cold stone hallways and howling through the

  rusty teeth of the shattered

  skyscrapers surrounding the academy. Tarsonis City was a

  spooky place, no doubt, but since the

  Dominion salvage crews had left, nothing was out there.

  Razek grinned, rubbing the thick network of scars at his throat.

  Except his pirates, of course.

  And a few Dominion patrols. Too few, some might say.

  Granted, the academy needed some work. They only had access

  to A level and above, and

  the lifts went all the way down to Z. Razek lit a cigarette and

  hissed smoke between his teeth.

  Who knew what spicy, expensive secrets the Confederacy had

  hidden down there...?

  He blinked. A white speck carved a brief line across the gray

  Tarsonis sky, a line that curved,

  then came back, straight at the—

  He fumbled for his communicator just as the Dominion medivac,

  engines flaring, came to a

  rearing halt above the dusty grounds of the academy. Eight

  marines in powered CMC armor

  plunged from the front loading ramp, striking dirt with thundering

  mechanical crunches.

  Sera and Bourmus, standing guard at the entrance tunnel

  beneath the ruined statue, stood

  gaping. Only Sera managed a grab at her sidearm before the four

  marines closest dropped to 3

  their plated knees, and all eight opened fire with their gauss rifles simultaneously. C-14 fire

  chopped gaping chunks out of the two guards, dropping them in a

  tangled heap.

  Only twenty seconds had passed since Razek first saw the

  dropship. The unused

  communicator trembled in his hand.

  One of the marines, his armor scarred and battered, broke ranks

  and stamped toward the

  tunnel. Shrieking, Miles came racing out of the tunnel with that

  damn knife of his. The marine

  grabbed his wrist, crushed it, then shattered his skull with a

  casual backhand, scattering the

  idiot's brains into the dust.

  "Razek!" screamed Lom over the communicator. "Marines!

  They're killing everyone!"

  Not yet, thought Razek, heading for the lift and drawing his gauss

  needler. But I'm sure

  we're gonna give them a chance.

  * * *

  Four Dominion marines advanced down the dark hallway two by

  two, their bulk blocking

  the sunlight spilling through the front gate. Chest illuminators

  flared, outlining the lift doors

  ahead in overlapping circles of light.

  A heavily scarred pirate lunged into the lights like an

  inexperienced stripper and fired a

  quick burst of needles. A lucky round clipped the front left

  marine's leg servos. He dropped to a

  knee, already raising his C-14, and fired back. The Impaler spikes

  stitched a diagonal line across

  the pirate's chest, and he fell, spilling apart.

  The rest of the pirates came then, whether through that loss of

  nerve that somany fatally

  mistake for courage, or through sheer hopelessness. A marine in

  the rear hurled a single

  grenade through the heroic last charge of the pirates into the

  doors of the lift beyond.

  Flames and jagged fragments of steel scythed back along the

  hallway. The pirates didn't

  disintegrate. Not exactly.

  Dripping with blood and terrible things, Sergeant Bayton raised

  his helmet's pitted visor.

  "Private Berry?" he said politely, flicking pieces of pirate from his suit's mechanical hands.

  "That was a very brave and unique tactic you just used."

  "Thanks, Sarge!"

  "Certainly. Because most marines would call using shredder

  grenades in close quarters

  goddamn stupid!"

  Sergeant Bayton reached out with slow malice and snatched the

  C-14 from Private Berry's

  hands.

  "You don't get this back until you can fire it like a big boy, Private."

  "But—"

  "No offense, Sarge," said Private Kell Daws, stil kneeling from the lucky shot at his leg, "but

  Berry has the self-preservation of a moth in a campfire factory,

  and those grenades are just

  beautiful when they go off. It ain't his fault."

  "I'm glad you think so, because you've just volunteered to help him scrub the people off this

  hallway."

  "Aw, Sarge!"

  The fourth marine raised a mechanical hand. Something

  dripped.4

  Private Caston Gage raised his visor just in time before he lunged

  against the wall and threw

  up.

  Berry raised a hand.

  "Do I have to clean that up too, Sarge?"

  "Attention, all squad members," Kell said with mock gravity into his helmet communicator.

  "Priority transmission. Private Gage has expelled creep, and may be infested."

  Sergeant Bayton sighed and rolled his eyes at the merciless

  heavens.

  "Recruits."

  * * *

  Once the grounds were cleared, the marines ditched their armor

  and began the long

  process of readying the upper levels of the academy for

  habitation. Ten hours passed. The

  entrance corridor was cleaned to the sergeant's somewhat unfair

  standards. The long mess hall

  on the second floor received some further attention. And Caston

  stil hadn't lived his moment

  of weakness down.

  "It ate a hole in the neosteel," Kell swore. "It was dis-gusting. I had to cover my eyes with a

  pancreas—"

  "Because you're an expert on anatomy, hayseed," said Private Vallen Wolfe from the

  kitchen. He was the only one anybody trusted to cook.

  "I had to cover my eyes with what was probably a pancreas," Kell said, showing Vallen his

  favorite finger.

  The marine recruits (lovingly nicknamed "Meatbag Squadron" by Sergeant Bayton) had

  been sent down to the deserted planet to garrison within the

  abandoned academy and spend a

  few weeks playing war games in the abandoned skyscrapers and

  broken storefronts. Bayton

  had been delighted to find an actual opportunity for war.

  The marines were green recruits, but the suits were heavily

  armored, equipped with headsup displays that handled targeting

  and threat detection, and did most of the aiming. The pirates

  had never had a chance.

  "We are goddamn warrior kings," declared Private Hanna Saul, slapping the side of the door

  as she came in.

  "Queen in your case," Berry said cheerfully. He was the youngest of them all, and a former

  xenobiology major, of all things. He'd entered the Corps to p
ay for the rest of his schooling.

  "Thank you," Hanna said, lighting a foul cigar. "I forgot until you reminded me."

  "No smoking in the damn mess hall!" Vallen roared from behind the steaming pot.

  "Hold on," Kell said, as Hanna stalked back the way she came, and insolently held her cigar

  out the doorway while staring wide-eyed at Vallen. "I'm worried we're wandering from the

  topic at hand."

  Fingers around the barrel of a Bosun FN92 rifle sniper rifle,

  Caston glared up at Kell.

  "We kicked the hell out of those pirates," Kell said innocently, and then mouthed "What?"

  at Caston.

  "Suits did most of the work," Private Dax Damen said, ducking under Hanna's cigar. The

  pirates' inept tinkering and Berry's grenade had ravaged two of

  the three lifts. Dax had spent 5

  the last six hours restarting the generators, repairing the electrical systems, and trying to unlock

  the academy's tangled security network.

  "These suits are junk," Vallen said. "The 5-4 Armored Infantry model my family modified

  is—"

  "Whoa, hang on," Kell said. "Your family is the Wolfe in Wolfe Industries? Did you know

  that, Hanna?"

  "Oh, yeah," Hanna said. "I think I remember hearing that the other five hundred times he

  brought it up."

  "Ha," said Vallen, but he was smiling.

  "I've never heard this," Caston said, relieved that the currents of mockery had parted

  around him.

  "Probably because you were busy throwing up," Kell said.

  "Vallen so admires Mengsk—" Hanna began.

  "Emperor Mengsk," Dax corrected from the corner.

  "—His Grace, His Lordship, the Eternal Emperor Mengsk the

  First," Hanna said, genuflecting,

  "that he's decided to likewise abandon his wealth and join the common men—"

  "And women," Berry said helpfully.

  "Thank you, Berry," Hanna said. "I forgot again. Common men and women, all right, and

  make a name for himself on the field of battle. Next, if he's done

  his homework, he'll sacrifice

  an entire planet so that he can rise... to... Hi, Sarge!"

  "Don't stop talking treason on my account, Private Saul,"

  Sergeant Bayton said as entered

  the circle of light from the shadows in the long depths of the mess hall. Even out of his suit, he

  was a big man, with a scar splitting the stubble over his scalp.

  "She was just making a joke, Sarge," Kell said, the smile wiped off his face.

  "Don't you think you've defended enough people today?" Bayton said, raising an eyebrow.

  "And hell, what do I care? She's a lifer, same as me. That earns her some grumbling privileges,

  so long as she exercises some damn restraint about where she

  uses them."

  He held her eyes for a long, grim moment. She nodded. Bayton

  sniffed the air.

  "Smells right glorious in here. You're an angel of mercy, Private Wolfe. Where are our medic

  and Private Drumar?" A horrified expression crossed his face.

  "Not together, I hope."

  "No," Caston said. "I saw Private Drumar heading up to the observation deck. I think

  Corporal Sawn is in her room."

  "I don't like her," said Dax, and the marines turned in surprised unison. Dax rarely voiced

  opinions. He'd been resoced for some unspecified crime after his

  conscription, and it was

  generally accepted that there wasn't much Dax left in there. "She talks to us like we're already

  dead."

  "If I were her, I wouldn't like you either," Bayton said, recovering first. "Flying recruits

  around. Being woken up every time one of you delicate lilies

  bangs an elbow. Private Gage, go

  check on our wayward marine. No skipping meals in this outfit!"

  Reflecting that speaking to Bayton about anything was a good

  way to get volunteered,

  Caston went, shouldering his FN92 along the way.

  * * *6

  Caston closed his eyes as the lift rose, putting one hand against

  the humming wall. He'd

  smiled at all the right times, reacted in all the right ways. None of them had seen.

  Screaming in the soundproof box, he punched the wall over and

  over and over, wil ing the

  weakness to leave with each shuddering strike.

  * * *

  Caston exited the lift, carefully composed and smiling faintly. He

  needn't have bothered.

  Private Marc Drumar was staring out the nearest window into the

  dark of the ruined cityscape,

  where broken skyscrapers rose like tombstones in the faint

  moonlight.

  "Marc. Sarge says you have to come down for dinner."

  "I'm not hungry," Marc said.

  "Yeah, well, he says that doesn't matter," Caston said heartily.

  "You know how he is."

  "I don't like it," Marc said quickly.

  "He's all right," Caston said, puzzled.

  "No," Marc said, turning to face him. "I mean today. The kil ing. I thought I was ready, but I

  shot that woman. I saw her fall in pieces."

  A cold well opened in Caston's chest. His hands trembled. He

  needed to say something. To

  disarm this conversation before it went somewhere dangerous.

  "She was scum," he said. Shit.

  "What?" Marc said, wrinkling his brow.

  "She would have killed you. She tried to kill you, man," Caston said, trying to bring it back to

  safety.

  "Yeah, I know," Marc said, and Caston relaxed.

  "But I was looking out at this city..." Marc continued. "And I was thinking. We spend all our

  time fighting rebels, pirates, zerg, protoss. And our worlds are

  ruined, and we keep killing each

  other. And for what?"

  Caston exhaled in an explosive rush. "What should we do? Talk to them? They want to

  exterminate us, idiot."

  Marc blinked once. "After what happened to you today, I thought you'd understand."

  "I'm not a coward."

  "Neither am I," Marc said, meeting Caston's anger calmly, and a little sadly. "I just don't

  want to do this anymore."

  Caston turned from him, and went to the glassless window, balling

  his fist into a bloodless

  rock. The wind smelled of rust and decay, and he breathed it in.

  He breathed out.

  "Our enemies aren't reasonable," he said. "Look at this place, Marc. You want to lay down

  your gun, but they'll kill you armed or unarmed. They'l b-burn

  your home down to ash. They

  don't care if you fight or not."

  "Caston," Marc said, after a long moment's silence. "Where are you from?"7

  "Don't you get it?" Caston said, wheeling around. "It doesn't matter! Pick a planet! Our

  cities are being destroyed and overrun and obliterated from orbit.

  You don't get to stand on the

  goddamn sidelines, Marc. If we don't fight, we're extinct."

  Behind Marc, something floated between the dark pillars of two

  skyscrapers. Two

  somethings. Huge, dark shapes with dangling appendages. The

  well of icy water spilled over,

  crawling up Caston's arms and over his shoulders.

  He'd first seen overlords in the final days of Mar Sara, rising over the horizon like tumors.

  The zerg had been unknown then, and he'd sat on the rooftop of

  his parents' home, watching

  them come, eclipsing the daylight.

  He remembered only snatches of the day that followed. Dark

  clouds of mutalisks flooding

  across the horizon in rippling flocks. Hiding beneath a cellar door while his mother shielded it

  from outside, screaming as bloody claws cut through her into the

  wood beneath. His father's

  rough hands around his waist, shoving him into a last transport as

  zerglings swarmed up the

  ramp and the overlords hung overhead, watching...

  Caston shrugged the FN92 off his shoulder and pushed past

  Marc.

  "Caston, what—"

  Through the scope, the two overlords were perfectly visible, even

  though it was night.

  Bulbous pulsing masses of purple-red flesh, pierced by knobs of

  carapace and jagged bones.

  Spiderlike legs twitched underneath, just behind hanging, somber

  heads. Each one had dimly lit

  clusters of eyes: the bigger overlord's was purple; the other's,

  green.

  They had halted in the gap, and were turning towards each other.

 

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