Chapter Text
In the far reaches of Confederate space, on the flyover planet of Mar Sara, a jaded Confederate Magistrate watched his fourth-class AI assistant crackle to life on the command centre’s Windows 98 computer.
“Good evening, Magistrate,” said the adjutant, its voice violently glitching. “I'll fill you in on what's been happening: Confederate traffic has increased substantially within the system due to the recent Protoss destruction of the Chau Sara colony. The Confederates have tightened security on all outlying systems, and it's likely we’ll have to suck it too. A priority one encrypted Confederate transmission came for you while you were at dinner. Instead of alerting you, I decided to take a message. Replaying transmission:
The screen fizzled for a moment, and the adjutant was replaced by a gorilla wearing an old man costume. He was housed within a suit of blood red power armour.
“Beatin’s, Magistrate,” said the power armoured gorilla, “I am General Edmund Clancy Marion Kentucky Lee Duke of the Confederate InSecurity Forces, Alfalfa Squadron. The Space Confederacy has quarantined this entire planet, and we'll proceed with the lock-down within 48 space hours. For your own protection, you are to take your core colonists from the fortified cities and wander out into the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m not sure you quite understand what a quarantine is,” said the Magistrate, “or for that matter, a lockdown.”
“It’s a recording, genius. I can’t actually hear you,” replied Duke. “Anyway, I know there won't be any problems with these new idiotic arrangements, nor will they sow the seeds for the downfall of the Confederacy, and later on myself. Duke out.”
Lacking any alternative, the Magistrate reluctantly called an assembly, and explained the Confederate orders to his core colonists.
All ten of them were outraged.
“I can't believe we've been sent to the wasteland!” said a farmer. He wore an exosuit that looked like something between a metal coffin and a drill. A small cowboy hat had been affixed to the top of his helmet. “These Confederates think they can push anybody around.”
The Magistrate shook his head with disgust. He couldn’t believe that an organisation called the Confederacy didn’t have a greater respect for individual rights. “There’s nothing for it, people. Load up and let’s get this over with.”
Marching down the planet’s only street, the ragged task force soon came across a rugged looking sheriff. He twirled an old fashioned 6 shooter, next to a dented E-Scooter. A Confederate flag hung limply from the scooter’s main stem.
“Howdy, partners.” The sheriff tipped his cowboy hat. “I’m James Eugene Raynor, marshal of these here parts.”
The Magistrate glanced around, admiring the breathtakingly barren and featureless desert that surrounded them. “That’s quite a jurisdiction.” The only points of interest were the large rocks and some xenomorphs trying to hide behind them. “We’re heading to the relocation point.”
“That’s right. According to the orders, the relocation point is…” Raynor quickly consulted a map that had been hastily scribbled onto his hand. “Yep, right smack bang in the middle of nowhere.”
The Magistrate sighed. “Great...”
Raynor twirled and holstered his 300-year-old pistol. “Alright boys,” he mounted his electric powered steed. “Let’s roll out!”
The E-Scooter shot off at the blistering pace of a brisk walk. The colonists awkwardly shuffled after the small dust cloud that kicked up in its wake. After about ten seconds, the colonist convoy shuddered to a halt, and Raynor dismounted his ride. “Okay, we’re here.”
The Magistrate could see that the relocation point had been prepared for their arrival. It boasted a single command centre, complimented by one whole supply depo.
“Don’t they know it’s Christmas,” said the Magistrate, massaging his face. “Pissant as this base is, there’s not much chance we’re going to defend it with only 5 marines.”
“You’re right,” said Raynor. “We’re going to need as many as twice that number. That would be…” he counted off his fingers, “six or seven marines.”
The rednecks in the power armoured drills managed to cobble together a barracks using nothing more than old debris, blue space minerals and a barracks. After 15 seconds of something happening, the doors to this ramshackle facility creaked open and out marched the Confederacy’s newest recruit.
The space marine cast a confused glance at his new, awful home. “How the hell did I get here?”
“Don’t ask questions,” explained the Magistrate. “Go guard the… dirt over there.”
The marine lumbered away while the Magistrate impatiently waited for the barracks to spit out another 4 power armoured hillbillies.
He wasn’t keen on the wait. These parts were alive with danger. Rumours had spread of Zerglings prowling at the perimeter’s of the fortified cities. Zerglings were a smaller type of Zerg, a lot like pitbulls, but less aggressive.
While the Magistrate waited, Raynor whizzed by on his budget bike. “You want me to scout the area, make sure there ain’t no Zerg hiding in the woodwork?”
“That all depends,” said the Magistrate. “I have to restart the mission if you die, right?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that answers that. Plant some mines somewhere, then go sit in the corner.”
As Raynor reluctantly went about his mission, and the Magistrate watched another space marine emerge, uncomprehendingly, from the barracks, little did either of them know that these were the first shaky steps of a far greater adventure.
At long last, in the Koprulu Sector, it was starcratfing time.