StarCraft: Merril IV

      Gunfire rattled Private First Class Allen Jenkins’ power armor, even as he stopped firing to slap a new cartridge into his gauss rifle. He cocked the bolt in a blink and let go a trio of the small hollow-tip rounds in a three round burst, ripping open the hard carapace of another Zerg creature. Little was known about the Zerg aliens, but one thing was perfectly clear from the first encounter with them; They were not friendly.

       “Shit! These things won’t stop!” a voice exclaimed on the tactical communications network, or ‘tac-com.’
       “Can it, private,” the distinct, rock-hard voice of Lieutenant Sorvo cleared the channel of un-strategic chatter. “Hold em off, Marines. And watch your ammo. Our relief force isn’t due for another 60 minutes.” The standard-issue Series 2-Delta gauss rifle, manufactured by Earth’s largest munitions company, Crest Munitions, used 5.56mm lightweight aluminum alloy hollow-tip rounds, exchangeable with high explosive rounds. But however small and lightweight they were, ammo always seemed to go fast. Allen knew this full well, for after what he guessed to be about 45 minutes of the firefight he was in, he had already used a little less than half his magazines, and the four other men accompanying him in the bunker had the same problem. He was about to call for a restock warning from one of the many SCV’s hovering around inside the walls of the base when a volley of countless needles cocooned in acid spray jetted through his helmet visor.

       “Private First Class Jenkins, Allen, Beta Company. You have died. Please stand by for simulator hatch to open,” the computer generated voice said in near female monotone.
       “Mother fuckers…” he spat and slammed the sensory gloves on the floor as the door to the simulator hall opened, spilling a deep red light on him. The light would return to bright white once the rest of his squad’s sim was over, whether they fought off the onslaught… or were virtually torn apart by the CG Zerg mutants.
       Just another shitty day in the training sim…

* * *

       “Merill IV, huh?” Allen went over the assignment sheet for the third time in his boredom.
       “Hey, shut the hell up, huh? Some of us wanna sleep!” a private complained and rolled over, facing the next triple bunk away from the bunk holding Allen, Dominick Viletov, and a Staff Sergeant from Fox Company, Beta’s partner in the mission.
       “Oh, suck it up,” Viletov exclaimed with a laugh. Dom was the squad’s comic relief, always doing something that no one else would do for the sake of dignity, and he was Allen’s bootcamp buddy.
       “Fuckin' bigmouth…” the young man grumbled and covered his ears with his pillow.
       “Yeah, I heard this place is pretty rough, it’s all swamps and deserted towns and stuff,” Joe Dyson, a Lance Corporal, commented while lying in the middle bunk on the opposite side of Allen’s. “What I don’t get is why would the bugs want it?”
       “Who knows. All that matters is that they’re there, and were a big can of Raid comin’ straight at ‘em,” said a random voice with a sense of pride for war.
       “Amen to that,” Allen praised the voice, turning out his microlamp.

       “God damnit, this food tastes like SHIT!” Dyson complained, slamming his spoon down in the mess hall on board the Nestra, a Class 1-C Battlecruiser with the United Earth Federation Navy.
       “Oh shut the fuck up and eat it. Not like you got a choice,” 2nd Lieutenant Ness Foreton said as she gave him a look that implied anything but sympathy. Allen laughed with the rest of the 8 man table, full with fireteams 1 and 2 of 1st Squad, Beta Company. Their meal was simply a bowl full of a gray sludge, lumpy and thick, with no flavoring. It was chock-full of genetically enhanced vitamins, minerals and other nutrients, and the Marines were required to eat it – but they didn’t have to like it.
      “Not sayin’ I like the crap myself, but it’s all we get. So deal with it,” she finished, and went back to eating.
       “Well I think if I force down one more nasty ass spoonful of this cannon fodder I’m gonna hurl,” Dyson said, and abruptly got up and stormed off towards the repulsorlift, probably going back to his bunk to eat some contraband food that someone smuggled onboard. It wasn’t a serious enough crime to be Court Marshaled, but you could still get busted for it.
       “That guy can’t handle a little lumpy shit… and yet they gave him a gun?!” Viletov asked loudly, and everyone who heard him laughed.
       “Well put, kid,” Sergei Vasquez said, nodding and smirking as he half-chewed, half-mushed his ‘nutri-shit,’ unaffectionately name by all of Beta Company.
       “Thanks, old timer,” Viletov replied.
       “Hey, I resent that.” Vasquez returned, chuckling. Some of the squad members liked to give him a hard time about his age, even if he was First Sergeant, and probably as strong or stronger then anyone in the group.
       “Yes sir. Yes you do.”
       Just then, the P.A. of the mess hall bellowed a low-pitch note, meant to stop talk and grab attention.
       “Okay, Marines, that’s it, lets go. We ship out in 2 hours. Report to your assigned med stations for check-in.” Vasquez said and sarcastically dumped his bowl of gray matter in a waste compactor.
       “But I want more nutrishit!” Viletov exclaimed excitedly and shoveled a huge, nasty spoonful into his mouth, then bounded over the table to crash into Allen.

       Allen showed up at the med station carrying his utility bag, containing all his comforts of home – a full set of clothes, a bowie knife, not capable of being stored with the standard Terran battle armor, a pair of shades, and an amulet that he had bought from some shady merchant port while he was on leave. It held a large blue crystal set in an unidentifiable gold metal, and on the back were inscriptions of a foreign language. The merchant told him that it had brought him great fortune, in the form of a 200% sales increase. This intrigued Allen, so he wore it whenever he was in battle… even if that was only 3 official times. Then again, in the UEF Marine Corps, that was a damned good start.
       He threw his bag to the transport pilot, who was going to hover-drive it to the cargo ships awaiting the luggage and clearance for liftoff, which would be given once the Marines were prepped and onboard the troop transports. He stepped foreword and yellow lasers scanned his outer body as microultrasonic waves scanned his organs and bones for any significant imperfections. Once he was given the go-ahead, he went foreword and jogged out of the complex in two single file lines with the rest of 1st Squad.
       “I’m fryin’ me some Zerg shitheads!” Viletov roared and flopped into a seat next to Allen. Char was the homeworld of the Zerg species, and supposedly was home to the Zerg Overmind, literally a huge, living brain. It controlled the smaller Zerg Cerebrates, the ringleaders of the Zerg Swarms.
       “Fuckin’-A!” Allen yelled and high-fived the huge muscular figure of his friend. “I only wish we’d stop screwin’ around with these stupid little colonies and go crash Char itself!”
       “Yeah, I hear you. But it ain’t our choice.”
       “’Course it’s not, high command does the hootin’, us Marines do the shootin’!” a guy in the next row added.
       “Damn straight,” Viletov acknowledged with a grin.
       They compared kill experiences, graphically explaining gorier and gorier examples, trying to better one another for half an hour until the entirety of Beta was loaded onboard and lifted off.

       With two thuds back to back, the dropship’s ramp dug into the dirt of the airstrip of QuickSilver Outpost, Merill IV.
       “Okay, boys, let’s check in. Shall we?” Foreton sad as the last of her dropship’s load trotted down the ramp.
       “You heard the lady, lets move!” First Sergeant Vasquez called to his own group, which included Allen. They jogged over to the nearest of the three command centers within the perimeter of the outpost. A Marine emerged from the entrance wearing standard Marine dress uniform and his insignia showed him to be a captain, and apparently was the commanding officer of the base. He was flanked by two power-armored Marines whose shoulder pads were painted a deep blood red, giving them a demonic look with their visors down.
       Lieutenant Sorvo made his way to the front of the ranks of Beta and saluted.
       “Lieutenant James Sorvo and Beta Company reporting, sir. Fox Company will be unloading momentarily,” he said, with a nod from the captain.
       “Not a moment too soon, either, Lieutenant. ComSat scans have picked up large thermal and sonar images to our north and east. We believe there is a Zerg-infested colony from the first years of our discovery of Meril IV,” the captain explained. “I am Captain Bennington, and I am overseeing operations here at QuickSilver Outpost.”
       What the captain said made Allen wonder the same question that Joe Dyson had asked on the trip there:
What is so damned special about this crapshoot planet? He was sure that the rest of Beta was thinking the same thing.

* * *

       “What the hell are we walking through a field for? If we’re gonna fry some Zerg ass, we gotta take it to ‘em!” a Marine asked from the back of the Patrol line.
       “Hey man, I didn’t ask for it. This is command’s doing. Blame them,” his patrol leader said, and motioned for them to move towards a narrowing part of the clearing. “Our instructions are down to the edge of this field, then back through the southern edge of this swamp. Let’s get going.”
       “Whoa, hold up,” PFC Jack Netheim said in a curious voice. “What the hell is this crap?”
       He was prodding a gelatin-like purple mass that covered a section of the grass, and continued all the way into the forest to the east.
       “That’s the Zerg’s version of grass, soldier. Nasty shit. I think they—” his comlink cut off when in a blink he unslinged his weapon and triggered four single-shot rounds, right between two Marines in the group of 12. Allen spun around, drawing his own weapon as he turned, and then saw the mauled carcas of a dog-like Zerg creature lying a fifty yards out.
       “Ah shit, he saw us, and that means theres more comin’. We’re high-tailin’ it outta here. Lock n’ load, and stay alert! Move!” the sarge said and motioned to move out. Aided by their power armor’s hydraulic systems, they trotted faster than a normal human through the edge of the swamp and into the half-foot deep muck.
       “This’ll slow us down, sir,” Allen pointed out, glancing right as he reacted to a bird of an unknown species taking flight suddenly.
       “Well let’s pick up the pace. Get your knees up high so you don’t hit any tree roots or anything and end up with a face full of this shit,” he replied. But sure enough, a private in the middle of the two-by-two line tripped and splashed into the mud.
       “Mother f-f-f…” he started as the Marine behind him helped him back up, “this shit smells!” He wiped his visor with a gloved hand and, seeing as this didn’t help but spread the junk around, lifted it.
       “Keep movin’. Those things will be on out tails. And we don’t wanna be in this crud when we’re runnin’.” Sergeant urged them on.
       As they waded through the swamp, the muck got increasingly deeper, and even with the aid of their power armor’s hydraulics, they were moving slower than MaArthian fire beetles. Allen felt like a sitting duck just sitting there, gun above his head, knife slippery and submerged in swamp muck. They slugged along, keeping eyes and ears open for any movement, and as they waded through, the trees thinned out and the gunk shallowed up, returning to ankle depth.
       “We’re still two kilometers away from home. Let’s go,” sergeant said.
       They got back to a splashy trot through the swamp, and they eventually came upon the edge of a ruin of a town. The buildings were missing doors, and all the plasteel viewpanels were empty, dark squares that gave Allen the feeling of being watched.

       “Yikes. I don’t even wanna know what happened here…” Viletov said as he looked around at the deserted buildings. “Anyone else feel really unwelcome?”
       “Keep your eyes peeled. I wanna know about any movement here,” the partol sergeant ordered.
      “Does that mean we’re shootin’ birds, sarg—” the mud-plastered private in the back let out a blood-curling cry of pain as a jet spray of acid tore through the back of his power armor and melted away the upper half of his torso.
       For a split second Allen stood there, dumbfounded by the gruesome sight in front of him… And then training kicked in. He swiftly drew his rifle and searched their perimeter. Then he looked to the sky. A scorpion-looking creature with wings was flailing in the sky, taking countless bullets from the Marines who had reacted immediately. He saw it hit the ground, and then his neural implants, linked with his suit’s Heads Up Display, zoomed into the distance 200 meters off and found a multitude of the creatures coming their way.
       “We gotta get outta the street! Now! Head for those buildings and set a perimeter,” the sarge ordered. He was tall, and even under the armor Allen could tell he was built. On his armor was the word ‘BIG’, written across the left shoulder. Allen couldn’t put a name on his face, so he must have been from Fox Company. Didn’t matter; he was good.
       They ran into the nearest office building, doors and windows missing. The ground floor was more or less one big room, a few durasteel tables and chairs with torn and rotting pads. Allen and Viletov quickly moved to the windows, taking a knee at two of the three front openings. From there they opened up on the flyers who were much closer now.
       At first they picked their shots, taking individual targets, but when another Marine took a glancing hit from an acid stream to the leg, they tightened up and laid cover fire for the Marines who helped the wounded inside. The men brought him in and lain him away from the windows, propped up against the far wall. He was swearing up a storm and tearing off the partially melted armor plate over his left thigh.
       “That flying fuck spat on me! He fucking spat on me!” he yelled as the squad medic swatted the soldier’s hands off of the wound and sprayed it, first with a neural disabling agent to numb the pain, and then a bio-sealant to protect it from the flexible wound dressing he wrapped it with. It wasn’t bad at all, and once the bleeding stemmed and the sealant was applied, the Marine could stand with a little help and he could walk along the wall.
       “Okay, Derrig? Can you shoot?” the medic asked.
       “Yeah. No way in hell these scumbags are getting’ away with this,” the limping Derrig replied.
       Allen motioned him over. “Take a window, Derrig. Keep your visor down, that green shit won’t look too pretty on your face.”
       Two other Marines were just inside the double-doors, taking pot shots at the flyers.
       “Let’s flip these tables and close up these doors,” the sergeant said. “I’m radioing base for anti-air support.” The two by the door scraped a table over to the open doors and barricaded one side, then the other. “Okay Marines. We can’t stay here. If anything with legs shows up, were in trouble.” He then pointed to Allen and Viletov with two fingers. “You two, check upstairs and see what’s beyond here from the windows. Keep your heads down; You’re higher up and a bigger target for ‘em.”
      They got up and moved, first at a crouch, then stood and jogged to the staircase once they were away from the windows.
       “Ready?” Viletov looked to Allen with a serious face, one of the few he ever wore.
       “Let’s go,” Allen said. They moved upstairs, guns up and ready. Allen swung around the corner of the staircase and immediately fired, tearing open a flyer’s central body.
       “Fuck. There’s a lot of ‘em. And I can’t see base from here.”
       “Okay, lets get back downstairs and help,” Allen said quickly, in between six-round bursts. He began to head down when he spotted a set of wheels under a half-open metal door just outside of their stronghold. “Hey! Are those wheels under that door?!”
       Viletov glanced out. “Oh thank God… I hate walking,” he said. “We gotta go tell ‘em downstairs.” They bounded down, nearly running over Derrig who was leaning on the wall just off the stairs, near his window.
       “Sergeant! There’s a few vehicles outside in the garage,” Allen announced. “We can take ‘em and outrun these flying sacks of shit.” The sergeant came back from the window, throwing an empty cartridge and slamming a new one into the breach in his rifle.
       “Okay, Jenkins,” Big replied, cocking the bolt to bring yet another deadly spike into the firing chamber. “You and Viletov go and see if they’re operable, and take Sempert with you.” Sempert was taking Big’s place at the window, picking shots carefully despite the multitude of targets. Big went back to him and clapped his shoulder pad, telling him the plan. Sempert nodded, expelling the last rounds of a cartridge and discarding it.
       “Lets’s go out the back and see if we can open that garage door,” Allen said over the other Marines’ rifle chatter. They moved out, eyes and guns sweeping the sky. The sky was clear of the creatures, and Allen slung his rifle and drew his extremely large combat knife, moving to the garage door. “Watch your six, and watch your gun; This door is small,” he observed aloud, and proceeded to kick the door in with a heavy metallic boot.
       The three marines moved into the small enclosure with elite speed, covering all angles. After the room was cleared, Allen started to say that the vehicles should be by the doors, when Sempert cut him off.
       “Holy… shit,” Sempert said slowly. The young private approached one of the three vehicles, its metallic plating glinting from the light flooding in through the kicked-in door. The machines appeared to be military, because not many civilian vehicles have a .30 caliber machine gun mounted on the rear. They seated 2 in front, driver and shotgun, and 3 in back, plus a gunner mount. The hoods and windshields were sleek and dark, and the roofs were - well, there were no roofs. There was an overhead bar for the backseat passengers, but virtually no protection from the air.
       Its still wheels, Allen thought.
       “Okay. We each take one. I’m going out first, drawing the most of the bastards away from the building. You two drive out and pick up the boys,” Allen planned as he talked.
       “That’s crazy. I like it,” Viletov Said. “I’d say be careful, but a lot of good that’d do you. So, uh… drive fast?” He clapped Allen’s shoulder pad as they closed their visors.
       Allen started his vehicle, noticing the seat was just a little cramped in the more-than-human sized armor. He’d have to deal with it. That’s what Marines do. They get into the real shitbucket situations, and then they deal with it accordingly (‘accordingly’ usually meaning bullets).
       He started his vehicle and began to pull out when a rocket struck his tail.
       “Shit!” he yelled. He spun at the waist to see the damage, and the two soldiers with him burst out laughing. The overhead door was still partially down. Sempert tried the control panel by the door, but was unsuccessful. He was getting angry when Viletov raised his weapon and triggered two rounds into what he perceived to be a gearbox. It sizzled, and then the overhead door actually dropped down, falling off the tracks and folding in on itself, crumpling on the ground like an ancient musical instrument. Allen sat in awe of this for a second, until Viletov kicked his door.

       “Get movin’, dumbass!” he exclaimed. He bounded into his own vehicle, Allen in the center and Spempert on the left. “Lets roll!” They revved engines, and Allen took off first.
       He got out of the garage, spun to right himself, and sped around the corner of the office building. The flyers hadn’t noticed him yet, so he climbed up to the gun turret and let loose the .30 caliber beast. Strafing back and forth into the flock of nightmares, his flying predators reared up on him in mid-air