"New tactic: evade, don't attack. A Canadian strategy that has worked for decades."
-|]agomar
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| Tarsonis Episode One: Downtown Blues | | | Author: | | | IP: | bess-proXXXX | | Date: | 05/08/02 08:05 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 5, Min: 5
Lifetime Rating for TheyAre: 6.1111 |  | Comments liked, flames make me go into a closet and cry.
Tarsonis
Episode 1: Downtown Blues
July 3, 2500. 5:43 P.M.
The lone Siege Tank roared, fire erupting out from the massive barrel and lancing out through the ruined streets of Tarsonis. The shell exploded a hundred meters down the street, a roiling ball of golden flame appearing out of thin air, playing light off the scorched and pock-marked buildings in a macabre light show. The ground shook beneath Logan's feet and he moved to the left, onto more sturdy ground. No need to fall into some sewer, he thought.
Logan cursed as gunfire erupted all around him, and he realized that he'd exposed himself to enemy fire. He dove back into cover, pieces of mortar and stone splintering into millions of flying shards that rained down on him as they were hit by Gauss fire.
Leaning around the corner of a car half-buried in rubble, Logan squeezed off a few rounds in the direction of the enemy before taking cover again from their murderous return fire.
All around him, smoke rose from the burning city of Tarsonis Prime, on the planet Tarsonis (Prime), in the Tarson system. Place is so great they named it thrice, Logan thought. The capital of the Confederacy had been (and still was being) bombarded from orbit by the Sons of Korhal while the terrorists made their landings on the massive orbital defense platforms that floated above the city-world, and now the planet itself. The Southern Palace District was still on fire, blazes burning out of control, and twisted spires were all that remained of the Business District's (formerly) famous skyline. It would never be the same, with none of the buildings rising above more than half their original heights. Not even the massive Senate Building had escaped the rebel's wrath: once towering 350 stories, it now couldn't be any higher than 40.
"Get ready, men!" came a voice over the patched comm system. All they had left was short-range, nowadays: the gargantuan system that had spread across the entire Confederacy, Kel-Morian Combine, Umojan Protectorate, and many of the outlying non-aligned worlds was gone, having been destroyed almost a year ago during the opening stages of the Zerg invasion.
"Here they come!"
That was 2nd Lt. Anderson, alright: Logan had never known anyone (alive) who seemed so enthusiastic about war. You'd think several burned worlds and millions of casualties would put a damper on his patriotic spirit, Logan thought. Guess not.
“Direction?” someone yelled. “Right up 29th Street,” Anderson replied. “Protect the tank, it’s the linchpin of our line!” Looking around the car, Logan could see them forming up into a column: row after row of red-clad marines.
“Ten seconds to range,” Anderson yelled. The tank boomed again, and an explosion ripped through the advancing column. When the smoke cleared, most of the rebels were still coming, although their formation broke up.
Logan huddled behind the car as sniper fire plastered his position. Damn high-powered rifles, he thought.
“Five seconds!” Anderson cried.
Someone started firing; the enemy snipers concentrated on him until barely half a second later Logan heard a sharp wail, followed by the sound of a Gauss Rifle clattering to the ground. Serves him right, Logan thought. Bet he was a newbie.
“Enemy in range!” Anderson screamed, his voice hoarse.
Logan brought his C-14 Impaler gauss rifle into line and raked the street with fire, spending a clip in little more than three seconds. Ejecting the spent clip and slapping in another, he was joined by two dozen other marines and the tank, which was shelling buildings on either side of the street, trying to take out snipers hidden in the upper floors.
The enemy kept on coming, though: reinforcements streamed out of side streets and augmented the red-clad line of death, a red hand holding a whip inside a black circle inscribed on their left breast-plates. Crazy rebels, Logan thought. They’ll never get anywhere near here like that.
He thought about that for a moment, pouring spikes into the oncoming troops. The Sons of Korhal may have been crazy, but Arcturus Mengsk had proven more than a match for the ruling families of the Confederacy. After all, weren’t they here, pushing through the ruins of Tarsonis Prime, capital of the Confederacy? Hadn’t they brought the wrath of the Zerg down on Antiga Prime and a half-dozen other worlds?
Logan pushed the questions out of his mind as the attacking rebels surged forward. Some of them crumpled, their bodies riddled by gauss fire or incinerated by tank shells, but most kept coming. Someone shrieked to Logan’s right, and a broken wail for a mother rose over the battlefield before it faded out.
Logan grunted as a burst of fire knocked his left hand back, tearing into the metalshod glove that protected it. He examined the hand, and saw that the metal had stopped the spikes, but was useless now. Shedding the glove, he strained to raise his rifle into position. Had he been injured? Or did the CMC-300 Combat Suit augment his strength more than he realized?
“Visors down!” Anderson yelled. “Inject stimpacks!” Logan did neither. Visors tended to restrict lateral vision even more than it already was inside the Combat Suit, and stimpacks made people do weird—and suicidal—things.
Reaching down for a fresh clip, Logan had to grope around for a few seconds before finding one. As he slammed it into the rifle, he looked down and saw that he was on his last magazine, 500 rounds left. “I need ammo!” he screamed into his comm. “Here!” Anderson yelled, crawling over and tossing a few clips onto the ground. “I have to get back to the tank,” he said, and got up to run back over to the monstrous piece of metal.
He never made it. As soon as he straightened up, a hail of gauss fire ripped through his body. Letting out a short cry, Anderson crumpled over, blood pouring from a dozen wounds. Logan checked for a pulse, grimacing as blood spattered onto his face. “Lieutenant Anderson is dead!” he yelled. “Who’s in charge here!”
“No one,” came the reply. “The tank crew wants to get the hell outta here. There’s a small rise about four hundred meters back that’s more defensible. Corporal Thane, I think you’re in charge, sir. Should we go?”
“Yes!” Logan yelled. “Retreat up 29th four hundred meters and find good cover. Go!” Running bent over, Logan wove a path through the maze of rubble as enemy fire ground holes in the asphalt and buildings all around. He heard the tank unsiege behind him and begin its retreat, smashing through the jumbled mass of stone and glass, followed by a full regiment of rebel soldiers, it seemed.
Some of the men stayed behind, to delay the Sons of Korhal until the tank reached its new position. Logan admired people like that; giving your life willingly so others could live took something special. He sped up; just because he admired them didn’t mean he wanted to join their ranks.
The massive United News Network Building rose in the near distance. It had once been the second tallest building in the Business District, rising 240 stories into the heavens. Logan didn’t think it was more than ten or eleven stories high now.
“What the hell is that?” someone—Nikolai, by the sound of his accent—yelled.
Logan stopped as he beheld the ruined skyline. A massive explosion was rippling out from the side of the LarsCorp Tower, the (currently) tallest structure around at somewhere near 70 stories. Logan scanned the skies and spotted the form of a C-17A Wraith fighter rising into the upper atmosphere. Logan watched in silence as the Tower collapsed, spreading a huge cloud of dust and smoke over the Business District.
The noise was deafening; even so, Logan could hear himself say, “not anymore.” It seemed like a fitting epitaph for Tarsonis, the Confederacy, even humanity itself.
And then the snipers found him as well, just as they had Anderson, and Logan’s head erupted in bloody ruin. The tank exploded moments later, courtesy of an explosive round put between turret and hull. The sniper stood, contented with his work. He tossed his Canister Rifle in the air, caught it, and made his way down the side of the ruined UNN Building.
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