"YRM, don't have sex with PR, he has herpies"
-Persian-POW
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| The Clash of Titans(hopefully fixed version) | | | Author: | | | IP: | dialup-6XXXX | | Date: | 12/28/01 02:12 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 6, Min: 6
Lifetime Rating for Octavian82: 6.0000 |  | The Clash of Titans
Prologue
The year is 2239, and the galaxy has been set ablaze by a ravenous war that destroys all that it touches. Yet, after 6 long years, Sarah Kerrigan, the self-styled Queen of Blades, reigns supreme. Her dark power in ascendance, she controls the ferocious Zerg with an iron will and limitless ambition. The noble and embattled Protoss are hunted and chased across the limitless expanses of space, beaten but indefatigable, they muster their courage to die with honor, their eyes looking to the horizons of their worlds, looking for help that will not come. The tyrannous United Earth Directorate has fallen to “The Resistance,” a coalition of the West and the Colonies of Earth. They have thrown off their shackles and stand behind their American leader: President Henry Lancaster McClintock IV. Earth and her colonies have gone through the war relatively unscathed. They are the only one’s left; they alone stand against the darkness of Zerg. The stage is set for a clash of titans, of world-bestriding giants that, willing or no, will determine the destiny of billions of souls.
The Clash of Titans
Chapter One: Civil Discourse
November 22, 2329
5 Miles Outside the Riyadh Planetary Defense Center
The fight had been long but that final flight to the end short. He was now the leader, nay… the ruler of all he surveyed. The passenger’s compartment, designed to hold 10 comfortably, was positively extravagant for the one man hunched over as if he was trying to disappear within himself. The lights, by his request were off and the banter of the pilots muted. In his hands was a piece of paper, crinkled from being folded too many times. The paper wavered in the air since his hands shook. He was a monster. He had to be stopped…or am I just saying that to live with myself? I am about to kill the man I swore an oath to, I gave him my word. Duty or honor, honor or duty. Betray a person or betray my people…a choice for a philosopher, not for me. Then, he felt the bump of the landing, and knew the time for such thoughts was over. Decide, now. Time is up.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
President Henry Lancaster McClintock IV walked down the open hatch of the Presidential DSI (Drop Ship Infantry) into the dusty, red morning light of Mesopotamia. He no longer noticed the bleating of “Hail to the Chief,” an obscure tune dug up by historians, by the military band or the sharp salutes of the members of the 3rd Marine Division that secured the site. Funny, he mused, the 3rd fought on Iwo Jima and on Io, and now I have power from the barrels of their guns. The podium, with the-until recently obscure-seal of the Presidency, set up to the left for the press conference that would inevitably follow. Henry thought the press sure is milking their newfound freedom to the hilt. The escort of marines led him to the bunker where the final campaign had been fought.
The President of the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) walked down the spotless stairs of the bunker into the quiet bustle of the bunker that promptly shushed at the arrival of the President. He nodded, well that is that. He really said, “ Lieutenant General, you have my authority to act.”
“Yes, Mister President” responded Lt General Henrietta “Hotspur” Rochefort. She quickly spoke into a communicator, using both tone and language that remained discretely neutral: “The order has been given. You may proceed”
On the monitor at the head the room, the President watched as Prince Waheed Al-Shaqya took a scimitar from the scabbard. With the professional skill of long practice, Al Shaqya removed the head to the man tied to the cutting block. There, it’s done. The monster is dead. But you swore an oath…
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“ My fellow citizens of Earth, as President of the Commonwealth of Independent States, it is my duty to inform you that on this day, exactly 100 years after the formation of the United Powers League, that Shaddam Al-Quirac, the last Prime Minister of the United Earth Directorate and the United Powers League, was executed according to laws of the newly reconstituted state of Saudi Arabia for crimes against humanity. It is also my duty to inform you that the members his Cabinet and military will either be executed or imprisoned for life as according to the laws of their nation of origin. That is all; there will be no questions.” And in a flash of photography and shouted voices, President Henry McClintock IV walked away from podium and towards the crushing responsibility of governing the squabbling factions of the newly minted Commonwealth of Independent States.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“Give me a briefing people,” bellowed Henry, “Where do we go from here? And, goddamit, where is my lazy, no-good, sorry excuse for a son?”
“Uh, sir, we frankly have no idea where Hal is, probably with that Sir Stallaff…” replied Sir Richard Exeter his thick brogue from New Scotland, his domestic intelligence adviser, marred by the gravelly whisper that was the trademark of all people in his possession, “He evaded the people I sent to tail him, but we are on….”
“Never mind, Dick. I don’t blame you. Besides, he is my responsibility. He takes after his mother…Go ahead, give me the briefing.”
“Well, Mr. President. Where do you want me to start?”
“Earth.”
“The various factions that opposed the UPL in the recent uh…conflict…”
“You can call it a civil war, Dick, I won’t mind.”
“Right. The various factions that fought with you are coming into line. Whether that is out of a genuine political alliance or out of respect of your military support, only they know, but right now, we can bank on it. The UED is a broken reed. They were gambling that their fleet would succeed in bringing the alien races to heel. They bloody well lost. No political capital, no military support. Hell, the soldiers believe that they launched that fleet in complete ignorance and lead them into an ambush, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before the military gives anyone who reeks of the UED the time of day. Earth, except for a few dissident nationalists and the various liberal pacifist groups, the level of support on Earth is pretty solid.”
“The colonies?”
“Spotty sir. The first support you ever received came from the colonies. They love you out there with the exception of the colonies of New France. However, as you know, Admiral Mortimer’s campaign against New France was an utter failure, with his person captured and his fleet annihilated.”
“Hmm, that would put of any campaigns against the Zerg out of reach. Koprulu and the aliens?”
“Not a clue sir. It is a complete mess. From the fragmentary reports we have received. The UED, Protoss, and Mengsk were defeated over Tarsonis and are regrouping. The Protoss seem on the brink sir, they are done as a species if something doesn’t change. Apparently, someone named the “Queen of Blades” has asserted hegemony both over the Zerg and over the entire sector. She is our enemy sir.”
“Hold off on that for a moment,” interjected the elderly, grandfatherly William Rockefeller, “I think given our current industrial production, talking about ‘enemies’ is both dangerous and premature…”
Exeter was unmoved. “I understand that you had to include some the Zerg appeasers sir, but I don’t think we should be…”
“Damn it, Exeter,” Rockefeller scolded the young ghost, “I am the President’s economic advisor! We just had three years of civil war where large parts of Asia, Africa, and the Middle East were devastated. The UPL’s power base was in the Third World, and they stunted Western growth, deliberately, to minimize that threat of Western power, okay? We killed ourselves to make the UED expeditionary fleet and to fight this civil war. There is nothing left in my bag of tricks. This Queen of Blades can probably out-produce us ten times over. If she will negotiate, I suggest we do so.”
“Understood.” The President ending debate for the moment, “What precisely are our military capabilities now, Henrietta?” Is it wrong for me to wish you were my child and not the worthless brat I have right now?
“Yes sir. The situation appears calm for the moment. We are definitely weak in the capital ship area, but as the UED fleet preferred Valkyries and Behemoths, we are okay in fighter numbers. I currently have several hundred skirmishing with Zerg out beyond our colonies. Once we reorganize the factions into a real army, our ground support will be adequate. The war with the Zerg will be won in space, and that is where we are just plain weak. Can’t get around it. There is a new Zerg colony on the other side of New Chicago, our furthest colony from Earth that has only been there for about a week and a half, Earth Standard Time. I want to take a task force and eliminate it send a message.”
“Mr. President…” Rockefeller was warming up.
“I know, I know, Bill. I understand your position, but unfortunately we have to appear strong or this Queen of Blades will not respect us. Take what you need and raze the Zerg colony to the ground. I don’t want anything escaping. You are ordered to minimize casualties, of course. After that, I think it is time that the New French join the fold.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. You can trust me”
Henry McClintock sighed…No one can doubt you, Henrietta. I can rely on you. Why couldn’t you have been born a McClintock? “Okay, now. Agriculture. Are people going to have enough to eat this winter…?”
Chapter Two: Great Expectations?
November 22, 2329
London, England
Boar Head’s Tavern
Vice-President Henry “Hal” Lancaster McClintock V sighed when, upon taking a swig from the bottle of wine-a very good Sauvignon Blanche-he realized that is was quite empty. Hmmm, I could get another bottle, but that would involve sitting up and reaching over the bar…
“STALLAFF! Get me another bottle of wine!”
“Of course! Your inebriated majesty asks and he shall receive,” And a portly, short, dumpy man waddles towards the bar with, bowing and scraping in mock respect, “I am honored that thou doth honor my person with thine’s drunken, yet regal request…”
“Oh shut up you fat bastard, and stop calling me your majesty! Besides, you are using “thine” incorrectly; it already denotes possession. It’s high time that you…Oh fuck! What time is it Stallaff?”
And that was all that was needed to get Stallaff off on a rant, sweeping around the room, “Time? Unless hours are cups of wine and minutes the beer nuts upon which we feed, clocks the tongues of poets, and the sun a flaming hot women in red, fiery dress staring at you, beckoning you, I cannot see why you would be so superfluous as to ask the time of day?”
“Because I have a meeting with my father you fat, daft bastard. Besides, if anyone is more superfluous than you, my dear Stallaff, then I certainly haven’t met him.”
“ I will not coach such arrogance in a youth and, such a small youth at that. I am but an innocent, but you are enough to tempt a saint, Hal. Was it not two hours ago, that you were womanizing and drinking enough for ten men?” With an enormous belch, Stallaff took another swig of wine and eat another fistful of pistachios.
Hal moved towards Stallaff, thumping him on the shoulder. “Aye, I’ll admit it. We cannot all be as roundly robust as you Stallaff. You must weigh, what, 300 hundred pounds. You could drink me under the table twice over. But what, pray tell, is the time?”
Stallaff floundered about, trying, and failing, to find a clock in the dimly lit bar. “Ah never mind, you worthless prig. My father will have to learn to deal with disappointment. I mean, he is father to me right?”
“Only thing to do is to eat, drink and fuck, for tomorrow we die!” Stallaf said with characteristic braggadocio. There were several loud knocks at the door and a rumble of voices. “What the hell, to hell with them, I do not feel like entertaining guests.”
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