Time to Nuclear launch, Four hours.
Bioforms used vs biomass available 1 / 4
Powered Armor 2 / 2
Lost Machina Artefacts 1 / 1
Teleporter available
Nanofactory available
“Hey, wait a second. Factory was already making suits, got a new one. You got lucky. Come back and I’ll get your tubes replaced, at least then you won’t be down to your last fifty bullets.” Says Kerrigan.
She’s mimicking my voice perfectly. The single most creepy way to show off her bioweapon nature. I should distance myself from her, there is no way of guessing what parts of her once childish brain remain, and what was programmed into her skull. Or if there is even a girl left inside her.
“Make up your mind woman! I ought to report your instability.” Says the Juggernaut pilot, returning so quickly he snaps two tubes off entirely.
I signal to Kerrigan, gesturing for her to lay down behind the factory and be silent.
“Damnit man! Just look at this mess!” I snap, taking over communications.
I stomp out of the shadows, picking up a spare missile tube in one hand. The tube is some alloy of lightweight steel, only a few hundred pounds. Practically nothing in this armor. The Juggernaut rotates in place, one tread rotating forward and it’s agonist in reverse until his rear is facing the nanofactory. We have a clear view of his most sensitive bits, and I send two orders, one to the zerglings, and one to Alaea.
>Terran Thena: Disarm the bombs. I need time to work safely.
>Executrix Alaea: Done, good luck.
Good luck? Why do I need luck? If the bombs are defused they should be safe. I swallow, and order the zergling to be very careful.
Sable Yurten has replaced missile racks before, and this suit of power armor is built for engineers. Holographic instructions guide my hands as I reload two hundred tubes, dropping some of the odd caliber autocannons in favor of more missiles. This suit even has bundles of powered graspers hidden under armor plates, allowing me to deploy them and reach things my encased fingers otherwise cannot. Tentacles have never been so handy.
I recognize a few of the dropped autocannons as American made M2 machine guns, .50 BMG weapons. They even have ‘Property of United States Army” engraved on them. Jim must have sold gear to the Technocracy. The suit labels them as scrap metal and I take pleasure in crushing them. A few less guns for the Technocracy.
I’m not surprised in the least. At this point, I’m just waiting for another betrayal. Maybe I’ll win bingo. Twenty minutes pass as I move roughly twenty thousand pounds of missile tubes and missiles. Oh, and we can’t forget my assistant’s contributions. The zergling has managed to move a dozen bricks of explosive, stashing them on or in the Juggernaut’s access panels. Small doors I just happened to leave open while loading the missiles.
“Hey, sorry about being a bitch. Nearly died, then got left behind. My chips must have taken a hit and been damaged. I’ll run diagnostics and have them recalibrated.” I radio.
“Get that checked out before the next reload.” Responds the Juggernaut, absolutely zero emotion sullying his voice.
Then he is gone, exiting the bunker and driving up the ramp. I’ll need to time this perfectly, in case Kerrigan is still loyal to the Technocracy. She can’t know what I’ve done. Hard to imagine her cute purple eyes would stab me in the back, but it’s even more difficult to imagine a world where a Technomancer build a bioweapon without failsafes. One wrong word and her head might pop.
“Hey Kerrigan, you alright?” I ask, swinging around the nanofactory.
“Pfina’s pretty!” Says Kerrigan, somehow knowing to use the tight beam array instead of the radio.
A critically important distinction. Tight beam is sort of like morse code beamed through a laser at another suit. Our onboard sensors can pick it up and translate it into sound or sight easily enough, and most importantly, it’s impossible to pick up unless someone targets you directly while within line of sight. Unlike radio which will broadcast in every direction and shout “Hey, come drop a bomb on me” around every corner on the planet.
“Oh, thanks. Uhm, how did you learn to operate that suit?”
“Red.” She says, her tone losing all mirth. Becoming the robot I fear she is. “He took me away and taught me loth of thingths. Said I couldn’t see mom and dad until I wearned evewything and chased the sthinky people away.”
I swallow, deciding to press my luck. “Who are the stinky people?”
“I don’t know. Red never told me.”
“Is red your friend?”
“Pfina’th my only fwiend! Red never gave me hith name. He didn’t give me tasty meaths or a name!”
A sigh of relief escapes through my clenched teeth.
“Thank’s Kerrigan, you look pretty great in that armor. Lets go. We need to find somewhere safe from those Juggernauts. If we head back to singularity lines we can team up with them.”
“Otay.” She says.
The armor moves like a second skin, grasping the thirty pound flechette pistol with one hand. Suit tentacles emerge from between armored plates, forming a sling for the weapon. Even in the heat of combat it won’t be possible for me to lose the weapon.
>Executrix Alaea: Beaming up the nanofactory now. Oh, and the suits. They’ll fit in my closet. I see you’re leaving, want me to blow that bunker after you go?
>Terran Thena: Would you be a dear? ;)
>Terran Thena: Actually, wait until an artillery barrage starts. So no one knows it was me.
>Executrix Alaea: Roger.
[+3 powered armor]
“Kerrigan, we need to run.” I order, giving both lings the command.
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They’re like pigs in shit, sprinting through the mud and stretching out their legs. Cheetahs would be slower. But I don’t see how melee units can win against Juggernauts. I really should have made a missile launcher or something with the factory.
>Terran Thena: I need to kill a few Juggernauts, make me a few siege tanks or Yamato cannons?
>Executrix Alaea: Ha! I wish. Can only do steel and plastics without more resources. Reactors are a no go. No cloaks either. A siege tank would take me four weeks to make with this factory.
>Terran Thena: Cmon, I need something! Anything, a cheap rocket launcher? There are crates of nanofactory supplies down here.
>Executrix Alaea: Sure thing, right after I invent time travel and solve galactic scarcity.
>Executrix Alaea: Temporal anti-tampering locks. Can’t touch them or I’ll lose the teleporter. I could make you some hand grenades.
We run, Kerrigan waddling as the zerglings rush ahead. I’m at peace, savoring every second of my incoming victory. Jogging through the smoke my mind wanders, going to the only place that strategic decisions were a common occurrence. Starcraft, in those terms our squad is two marines and two lings, but each Juggernaut is most analogous to a Thor. No chance.
If I had one or two more tools it would be workable. One cloaking module and I could be a ghost, walk up to the Juggernaut and shoot him in the spine. Easy sabotage. But I can’t. We can barely burrow. The doglings can dig, but not enough for two suits of power armor to follow them. Wind sucks through my teeth. We are totally boned. A Thor wins that match up a hundred out of a hundred times. Result? Squished Athena and Kerrigan creme brulee. Ah, it feels impossible, but that only excites me. There has to be a solution.
Trench walls loom in front of me, a T junction, left to Singularity forces, right to the Technomancy. Left we go…
If we’re able to sneak up behind the juggernauts maybe we can hit them while they’re busy tearing through Earth conscripts… No, they can just reverse and crush us. Out of flash trained habit I activate the armor’s full systems, integrating it with the Technomancy’s friend or foe detection system. Tagged as an engineer. A logistics engineer. I have slug and missile counts for the ten nearest Juggernauts. Four are pushing into Singularity lines, facing no real resistance. Earth would employ fighter jets or tanks with depleted uranium rounds to solve the question of Juggernauts, neither of which the Singularity will use on this world.
Logistics engineer... Moving things from home to the battlefield. Like a worker unit or SCV. But this isn’t Starcraft. The objective isn’t to kill the enemy buildings, it’s to destroy the enemy—*
Another snap decision sends me back to the crossroad, sprinting towards the Technomancy’s next bunker. We have to win or Earth dies. Mom dies. Piece of shit dad dies before I can cut off his balls. My orders pass to the zerglings who race ahead of us, sprinting with such force that mud flies out of the trench. Thrown forty feet into the air by alien claws digging up traction. They aren’t on guard duty anymore. A new purpose fills their minds, one they have been waiting their entire lives to hear.
*—Destroying buildings in Starcraft is an abstraction. The assumption is that without units or supplies your army will run out of bullets or starve then be hunted down and destroyed in the most boring way possible, no reason to play out a forgone conclusion. No amount of broodlords can fight a viking with unlimited fuel and missiles.
“Pfina, wrong way.”
“Change of plans, we’re going to the next Technocracy bunker.” I say.
[Nanofactory acquired] appears in the center of my vision, so surprising I nearly faceplant. But shit has been popping up in my vision all day, what with all the chats from aliens and system notifications. This one –like all others– fades in a few seconds.
[Insufficient minerals for continued production]
[Acquire more minerals]
>Terran Thena: SC2 win condition vs Jugs
>Executrix Alaea: Makes sense, Death from Above?
>Terran Thena: yes
>Executrix Alaea: Need volatile compounds or organic gases
>Matriarch Hygieia: I got you. Take all you want. Unlimited til I land.
Our chats work at the speed of thought. There is no need for us to aim our eyes at the letters or press individual keys on a keyboard. Turning text into instantaneous communication of thoughts.
Looks like I’m not the only one running logistics. A smile creeps across my face. I know how to win. Or at least, tip the scales enough to flip a Juggernaut. Distant rumbling heralds a return to form from my Singularity kin. Louder than I’ve heard before. As if every gun on Earth decided to fire at once.
No sooner than the text fades, a truly spectacular shockwave flows through the world. Sending me and Kerrigan careening into the trench wall. I bounce off embedded logs, leaving a pauldron shaped dent in the walls. I spare a glance back at Kerrigan, who has somehow remained on her feet. Despite the clumsy waddle she is piloting that armor like a champ.
“Good job Kerrigan. Keep moving.” I beam back to her.
“Are you gonna leath me behind?” She asks.
My heart breaks at her words. There is no inflexion in her voice, it’s not a question. All curiosity is gone. Tossed into the nearest incinerator along with hope. Kerrigan’s merely confirming a forgone conclusion. I plant both feet, skidding to a stop.
“What? No!--”
I want to scream and shout at her, now is not the time for emotional breakdowns! We need to get out of the artillery barrage. But she has the mind of a child. I temper my voice, trying to keep my racing heart out of my throat. We have seconds left before the artillery hits.
“Leave my friend alone? No way. If I did that, who will keep all our chocolates safe? I need you Kerrigan. Queen of Confectionary Delights.” I say. Hearing a laugh.
The joy in her voice makes my spine tighten. True happiness dances across our tight beams, something I haven’t felt in a week. Not since being abducted… Or even before. Baz could make me laugh, but he never made me happy. Neither did any of whorely’s snide remarks. Always commenting on my eyeliner or how I missed a hair and was growing a caterpillar between my eyebrows. They were less my friends than an alien bioweapon.
“Lets catch up to the lings–”
Shells rain. Locusts that tear into everything. Thousands of pops create successive earthquakes. My helmet’s HELP system slams shut, gel packs inflate to maximum. Kerrigan’s does the same, but her armor doesn’t fit her. The gel packs won’t cushion a thing. We’re thrown, bounced, tossed, and cartwheeled through the air. Suits denting under the barrage. I feel every one of my bones bend, as if someone hit it with a baseball bat and smile.
Not out of masochistic joy, but because I’m not getting hit. A direct strike would kill me. The fact I’m still alive means I’m doing alright, unlike the intended targets. None of these impacts are aimed at me. Around the battlefield my HUD changes color for each damaged Juggernaut, and I cackle as they die. Missile racks explode in secondary booms. While one green icon jumps immediately to red, skipping yellow and orange damage indicators. Ammo counter reads 200 missiles, and zeroes for autocannons.
>Executrix Alaea: Oops.
She doesn’t need to say it. We both know she blew too early. One transmission escapes from the Juggernaut, crossing the battlefield as his burning husk barrel rolls into the trenches.
“No direct hits. Internal explosions. Sabotage–”
“UNIDENTIFIED ENGINEER! REPORT TO BUNKER 11645 IMMEDIATELY” Echoes through my armor’s speakers, and I'm tremendously grateful for my Singularity helmet.
I might have lost some hearing to the artillery shell, but this screeching would have popped both drums like a terrible mixtape not even your deaf grandma would love. My feet move, jogging back towards Kerrigan, she’s already moving forward in that awkward waddle.
“NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED.” Booms through my speakers, and four Juggernauts change their trajectories.
They know I’m an infiltrator. Or at least suspect me. A suspicion that will take more effort to confirm than a dozen engineers are worth. Simple answer is to blow me away, the sort of utilitarian approach I expect from cyborgs. One Juggernaut is coming straight for me, with a second to back it up. While the other two adjust to cover the holes in their formation, still heading for Singularity lines. No fire comes from our trenches. Strange, maybe we gave all we had in the barrage? No matter, Juggernauts on an intercept course. Destination me. Or really, where I’ll be in five minutes. Napkin math tells of a hundred bunker busting missiles and ten thousand slugs bearing down on me. Chin taps the armor, disconnecting all external communications except for tight beams.
“Kerrigan, tanks are coming, run. I might have to split up don’t let the Juggernauts find you. They’ll put you back in the cage, or kill you.”
“Otay.”
The answer isn’t good enough for me. I sweep her into my arms and sprint down the trench, racing with all the speed I can muster. Power armor does the heavy lifting, but I need more speed. My wishes are granted, servos whining as limiters are exceeded, each step is a twenty foot powered leap. Still too slow.