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Part 1: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=155663
Part 2: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=156015
I sauntered out from my private cabin to the S.S. Destiny Cloudfist proper, and was no more than forty paces into the main deck that I remembered why my excursions from my humble seclusion were so few and far between.
The battlecruiser captain, a serious minded Ruskie chap who, as is the norm with serious minded Ruskie chaps I am told, was carefully nursing his fourth Vodka and Vodka on Vodka rocks as if he may not see another for a full quarter of an hour, spotted me and all bedlam broke loose. He bolted to his feet, going from “at ease” to “ten hut!” without passing through any intermediary stage and let out a bellow of “COMMANDING HORIFCER ON DECK!” and it did my heart proud to see the keen men and women of the Terran military snap to a perfect salute in tandem, with an answering and quite keen bellow of “SAH!”
The moment was somewhat tainted by my low perspective, vis., I had hit the deck at the first shout, not being at my best in what passed for early morning and in no condition to hear about commanding horficers at such volume. Realizing that we were not, in fact, being attacked, I hastily got to me feet and addressed the assembled with a “what ho” that, I hoped, dripped with gravitas and dignity.
The captain, standing so stiffly to attention he seemed in serious danger of twisting backwards, addressed me.
“What will you be needing today sir?”
“Oh nothing, nothing,” I said with a kindly patronizing wave of the hand, “just wanted to see the men and women, keep up the old morale, you know.”
“Yes sir. Would you be wanting to address the troops, sir?”
I could have throttled the man. Give old George Mengsk a one-on-one with any man, be he pauper or prince, and he would be the soul of the conversation, all wit and charm and all those correct things. Ask him to speak before a multitude, however, be it of seven year old choir children, and the mice in the stomach play up and the throat freezes and, quite unfairly, the perspiration drips freely from the brow.
And of course the blasted Russian (yes, we no longer recognize the separation of countries on Earth but dash it, I know Russian when I see one) had asked the question in a voice that carried to every ear in attendance. It reminded me, quite unfavorably, of my mother who would be chatting on the phone to some loathsome relative or the other (probably an Aunt, one of God’s punishments for a sinful race) and, as I tried to sidle through the door, would yell out, phone in hand, whether I wouldn’t like to speak to her.
Well there it was. Caught like a fly in a spiderweb of eyes and ears drinking in my every move, hanging onto my every word.
“Er.” I began, and realizing this was quite weak, added “Ah.”
I took a deep breath. This was unmanly. This was letting the side down. How uncle Act would sneer if he could see me now. And so I launched forth with a grim determination.
“What ho, what ho. What a dashed heartening sight you make, doing the Terran colors proud and what not. Now I know a lot of you are understandably concerned about the Protoss fleet sitting astride us, but rejoice! I’ve had a word with their Executor, Marianus I believe her name was, fair woman, firm, don’t you know, but fair. But I spoke to her, at her one might say, and told her that our young lads and ladies were spoiling for a fight anyway and that if they didn’t dash off chop-chop they would be in for a trousers-down, six-of-the-best style thrashing from their eld- from their betters. And, when they’re properly cowed by this impeccable logic, why, we shall be free to pursue the vigilante James Raynor, whose been such a deuced pain in Unc-His Majesty’s side. Rascal in hand, we shall return triumphant and be showered with roses and women will swoon for us, and for the women in our forces, well, I can’t imagine men won’t be getting into such fights over you that Helen of Troy herself would be forced to say “oh dash it hang on a moment”. So keep your wits about you and your weapons oiled and we shall be in and out quick as a nip. Hip Hip!”
I was expecting a heartening “hooray” in answer, but it seemed the power of my oratory had robbed everyone on board of speech. They were all staring at me, most with their mouths open, no doubt struck dumb by the gravitas of the moment and of the man as they say, or if they don’t say they jolly well should. Pleased with myself, I ripped off a fatherly salute to the assembled masses, adding a wink so they would know I was not all business all the time (nothing worse for sapping a soldiers morale than to know their commanding officer is a stick in the mud) and sauntered off.
But though, for the sake of the troops, my upper lip could not have been stiffer, my soul was sinking. Pop out of the S.S. Destiny Cloudfist for a brief saunter in pursuit of James Raynor without alerting the crew might have been easy to say- might have been, but wasn’t, as I still quailed at even thinking it- but acting on it was an even stickier wicket.
In the first place, how to leave? At least my absence would not invite overt comment; since we had embarked upon our ill-fated journey I had very wisely pursued the policy of cloistering myself in my cabin, curled up with a scotch on the r. and one of those books where there is a murder, see, and each of the guests have a perfectly spiffing motive, whether jilted love or secret inheritance and whatnot, and they all sieze each other up with their eyes and shout “aha!” or some such.
In the end, its always the Dark Templar who dunnit, but I digress.
How were we to procure a dropship? They don’t just dish them out like cads handing out flowers on Valentines. The army is actually quite sticky about these things; tell them you want to borrow just one blasted shuttle to see the sights, and the eyebrows raise disapprovingly. And once you’d asked, of course, you couldn’t disappear for a fortnight without even the assemblage of the Terran finest putting two and two together, and calling up the old Unc to report that the young master had gone AWOL.
I had gone to Haven of course, for foolish is the man who keeps his own council when Haven was around. I had laid the prob. before him, and he had said indeed, he had anticipated the difficulty, and I said had he now, and he said he had. We reached what may be called an impasse for a few moments and then, breaking under the strain, I bade him be out with it. He suggested, not unreasonably, that he use his considerable expertise with disguise to mask my identity and I thought this was quite pipping until it turned out he merely proposed to bung me in a marine suit with the helmet on and some make up underneath and be done with it. Lazy work, thought I, but it couldn’t be helped. At least now I could make inquiries without risking a second collective “SAH!”, which would have been two “SAH!s” in the early morn and at least three too many.
I entered the crew mess and, mustering my manliness, suppressed a shudder. The main deck was gleaming lights and leather and, admittedly, a lot of metal, but it was the kind of metal with class, a metal you wouldn’t mind your daughter marrying. Think of old green leather, and then think of it as a gleaming metal, and that’s how perfectly spiffing the interior is.
The mess, on the other hand, lived up to its name. It looked and sounded like a sailors alehouse had been smashed over the head with a foundry, interrupting its fight with a barracks. The language should have turned the air blue. There was clattering, and men and women loudly proclaiming their love-perhaps love was not quite the word-and the rest of the troops shouting and laughing in a manner calculated to test even the sternest of stuff of which I was made.
“Hullo hullo, just having a look around, nothing special. Er...any dropship pilots here?”
“Picking up or dropping off?”
I turned and was confronted by a girl who looked like she had been sketched out on a masters easel and breathed to life by a benevolent God rather than born in the more common, and stickier way.
I held my breath and sputtered a little, and am bound to admit I had no idea.
“Both, surely?” I said weakly. “I mean, you can’t p. up without d. off and vice versa. Not unless you plan to live up there and, frankly, I wouldn’t. It would play merry hell with cricket, what?”
I was blathering, and badly, but as fortune would have it this woman, in addition to a face and body that I cannot discuss here without bandying a woman’s name and blushing quite crimson myself, had that very excellent quality that certain women do, viz., finding the courageously bumbler endearing, even adorable, rather like a cat who is locked in mortal combat with its own tail.
She laughed. “Where to soldier boy?” she purred, and it would take a colder blooded man that I to not shiver inside the suit.
“I...well...out. I’ll have a form signed by the CO.”
She laughed again and turned on her heels and without turning around said “My names Cameron. Come see me in my quarters when you have it.”
I composed myself as best I could, or had begun to, when I heard a derisive snort behind me and I tensed. There is to the frequent connoisseur of derisive snorts, and trust George when he tells you he’s been subjected to many, a vast difference between “I disapprove of your cummerbund sir” and “did you just speak to my lady? Is that what you just did laddie?” and this was definitely the latter.
I swivelled and looked behind me. And then up. And then further up. This went on for some time until I caught the glaring face of a man who, if Cameron had been sketched, had surely been hewn in some dark world beneath our own when the Devil felt he had been slacking lately and it was really time to spit on the hands and get down to some real ghastly hellfire and brimstone stuff.
The Marauder looked down at me, and this was no difficult feat from his perspective, and said “Did you just speak to my woman!?”
Ah. Told you. Connoisseur.
