For Honor
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Author:	Shockwave
IP:	exchangeXXXX
Date:	02/07/01 08:02
Game Type:	Starcraft
Labels:	none
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Report Rating: 9.5, # of Ratings: 2, Max: 10, Min: 9 Lifetime Rating for Shockwave: 8.9231
The above image was created by one of my friends who is currently studying at the Ontario College of Art and Design, it impressed me so I thought it worth sharing. Since this is a battlereports site, I figured it would only be fair if I included a short story with this. Remember though that the main reason for this submission is so you can enjoy the picture, not the story. It is of course copyrighted, permission has not been given to redistribute it for any purpose. Shockwave[xpow] Pre I'm Nathaniel Donalds, call me "Nate." I was sixteen years old when I lost my brother. I'm not one of those sentimental cry-me-a-river types, but losing someone you look up will affect you no matter who you are. I remember watching one of those ancient 2D film classics, Princess Bride... "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die." So sue me, I have no idea how to spell his name, but that's my slogan now. "You killed my brother, prepare to die." So I joined the military, it gave me the chance to say that many many times. For Orson. Yeah I'm not sentimental, but I'm going to blow away those vermin in his honor. You've seen those commercials where the pilots go soaring through the air in their wraith fighters, doing 360's, looks straight out of an action movie? Bah, people drool about joining the air force so they can get a thrill. But those dreamy-eyed guys who eventually get into a fighter because they think it's "cool" are in for a surprise. War is not cool. I fly to kill, I am a machine, I am the best. Every Protoss had better duck and cower, because I'm the angel of death. And the rest of those guys who just think flying is cool, well they'd better stay far away from me. I do this to kill. For Orson. No, I'm not sentimental, I just want revenge. And nothing makes revenge as sweet as watching one of those Protoss fighters go down in a blaze... they use their brains to make things that kill, well we'll send those things right back where they came from. A silent fleet floated peacefully in space, starlight gleaming off polished armor of behemoth vessels. The only life came from sparks dancing like fireflies as smaller ships darted between the sleeping frigates, mending here, fixing up there, reloading and repairing and honing. Motionless, the frigates might have been nothing more than enormous works of sculptured metal, thrown carelessly to drift on their own, stretching for miles into the endless void of space. A faint burst, a rumble of displeasure, and the lead ship awakened from its rest. More flares eased to action along its bulk, massive engines rose from slumber, stretched weary limbs, groaned to life, pushed the ship ahead. Like fireworks, flames peppered ablaze amongst the fleet, more ships sighed back into existance, the void came alive with coughs of flame. The fleet moved, almost imperceptably at first, gained momentum, then the massive juggernaut was pushing forward. The whole fleet became as a burning comet, urging towards some fate unknown. For Orson. I War is not honorable. To conduct properly in a war is a personal honor. To preserve justice is honor. To give one's life for the sake of others is honor. But in war itself is no honor. There is no honor gained in two peoples destroying each other and deciding outcome through brute force. What we call honor from war is but a glorified version of how Terran kids contest for strength and establish hierarchy based on something totally removed from their character. Habits do not die when the young grow old, they merely become manifest in other ways. Once, we fought with words and knuckles, now we play with tools to destroy universes. But war is necessary, sometimes even is conquest. War to repel aggression that threatens your borders is not honorable, but necessary. I am trained as a warrior, my fighter has destroyed many other...ships... I should say "lives". When I was a mere youth, I drove myself with single-minded devotion as with my peers. I destroyed enemies, ended lives, some force of fate allowed me even to live through those exploits. Yet as I matured, I learned that war is not a game, it is not a calling to gain glory or to gloat about victories. When my fighter squadron was ambushed, I realized that war is... it is simply war. As my fighter limped back to the homeworld, I did not think to tally the number of kills I had gained that day, I thought about all the brothers that had perished, every single other ship but my own. I avenged their deaths, I continue to through the glory of war, yet it seems there is little glory left in what that is. Someday I wonder if all will cease, if I will have words for my enemies, those who continue to assail us. The Terran are heartless aggressors, they throw away lives without remorse in order to conquer towards their goal. They are mere glorified bullies ripped from their playgrounds. Someday I should ask them why. Or perhaps instead there shall be none left standing for me to ask. I am Tar'Akon, I despise the way of death and war, yet it marks the path of my life.

II

"Admiral Kennison, I am picking up multiple signatures ahead, registering at least fifty vessels, all Protoss origin. There is also a large distortion behind, I believe it is the cloaking field."

Two unmistakable blemishes in space, crafts of destruction intruding against the peaceful void, raced to close the distance between them. Like lovers they rushed to embrace each other, yet with open arms of death. On Kennison's flagship, the hum of machinery increased to a violent dischord as massive batteries charged. Red lights flared throughout the command chamber, pulsating off walls and basking an unearthly glow on the occupants within. Nearby, intricate circuit networks and psychic messages propelled numerous interceptors on the lead carrier Tolath to life, brilliant shields of flowing plasma like rainbowed bubbles formed around them. The site was awesome in proportion, the beauty astounding, yet all beauty for the single purpose of destroying beauty.

"Captain Donalds, how is your cloaking energy holding?"

"Estimate we have another five minutes before we need to decloak and rest," was the response.

"Good, then continue on present course, remind your wing that your objective is to remove that arbiter," ordered the commander. "Nate, don't be a hero, let's get out of this alive."

"I already *am* a hero, commander," came the quick retort. "Don't worry, we'll do our job, and I'll make sure that even your precious ship doesn't suffer a stratch."

"Uh huh, I hope the heavens are watching over us."

"Relax, commander, just save me some coffee for when we redock, we'll do the rest. May the force be with you."

"What was that?"

"Ah, nevermind."

III

Space came alive as a cloud of interceptors launched from their bays, forming a protective sphere around the armada like a swarm of bees protecting a hive. Tar'Akon brought his fighter near the rear of the formation, huddling with the rest of his force. The objective was simple: stay under the net of the interceptors, never stray out of range of the observor beacons, battle with reckless abandon, give honor to Adun.

As the fleets approached, the Terran armada slowed. An intensity began to mount at its pinnacle. The glow was soft at first, almost warm, then increased in urgency until it blazed like a veritable furnace in Hell. The Protoss fleet reacted instantly. Carriers heaved away from each other as a blooming flower and the scout fighters split into erratic evasive maneuvers. Tar'Akon's wing of fighters nestled under the protective covering of the arbiter and waited.

Then, furious like the fire from damnation itself, several bolts of raging energy screamed through the space between the fleets towards the Protoss vessels. The first bolt narrowly missed a carrier at the apex and instead erupted into a smaller fighter behind it. The hapless craft radiated like an overspent lightbulb before shields failed utterly and it burst into a spectacular shower of sparks. More fireballs raced towards their targets, shields flared as the vessels were pummeled, bright flashes erupted, several carriers ignited into blinding flame as the attack consumed them. Smaller explosions sparked up as scouts moved themselves bodily in front of the carriers and sacrificed the barrage unto themselves. The fleet lit like a fireworks display, plasma and electricity and flares razing through its core.

Tar'Akon veered as a carrier near him absorbed a direct hit, its shields flashing, struggling, failing. A second blast found its hull, bulleting cleanly through the entire girth of the carrier and exiting in fiery triumph out the other side. The carrier decompressed and exploded instantly, massive sections of hull crumbling like paper as a blaze consumed the giant vessel from within. Interceptors nearby winked lifeless and tumbled from their courses. Tar'Akon pulled on his throttle and turned away violently as a section of the hull lurched toward him, simultaneously a dead interceptor careened into his ship from the other side. Shields met the impact but the force of the collision sent his ship spinning. As he struggled to right his ship, he found himself pointed away from the vessels, disoriented.

It was then that he noticed a slight distortion approaching him.

"Yee hah!" the cheer rattled in Nathaniel's helmet. "Look at those ships blow! I'm going to take a picture and send it to momma!"

"Maintain formation on my wing," Nathaniel commanded irritably. "Once we're in range, target the arbiter and then get OUT of there after it blows. Avoid engaging anything else if you can help it, I have no idea what's under the cloaking field."

"Captain, my batteries are nearly spent, I'm going to have to drop out of cloak any instant," came a somewhat nervous response. "What then?"

"Focus on the target, Tom," Nathaniel said. "Only one of us is going to make it out of here alive, either it's us or them, you do your job and it'll be us, o.k.?"

"Hey, I came here to fly, not die on some suicide mission," another pilot added in.

"Look, if that arbiter doesn't die, we all die, and Tommy's mom will never get a copy of his picture," Nathaniel responded. "We don't want that, do we?"

He was met with some half-hearted chuckles and "No, sir"s.

Tar'Akon sent a message to a nearby observor, and the imperceptably tiny beacon swivelled almost lazily toward the coordinate. His tracking system lit up with more than a dozen small craft heading towards him.

"Wraiths," he spat. "Where is our corsair support?"

"Corsairs are already engaging the bunk of the fleet and are too far to assist," said the captain. "This is our chance to contest with honor. Stay under cloaking until the enemies are in range, then engage and crush them without mercy."

The wraiths maintained course, heading towards the arbiter without wavering, perhaps in disdain under their cloak of invisibility. "En Taro Adun!" roared the wing commander, a dozen fighters joined his cry as he thrust his ship to life and the battle was met.

Missiles careened into invisible targets, explosions clouded his view as almost half of the enemy perished even without a chance to react. Tar'Akon felt the familiar surge as he broke away from the cloaking barrier of his arbiter. The wraiths scattered with discipline, the observor struggled to keep as many as possible under its detection net.

Tar'Akon's ship shook violently as a barrage of lasers hammered his right wing. Shields flickered brightly, and he squinted through the distortion to seek his target. No use, the wraith was outside the observor net. Tar'Akon swung around in disgust, leaning into the turn, as a set of missiles flew to life and narrowly missed his cockpit. He considered ordering the observor towards his position, but decided against it. He had fought blind before, this would be no matter.

Another burst of laser fire lanced haphazardly past his ship. Noting the progression carefully, he aimed slightly ahead of the source and unleashed a succession of missiles. The first missile flew straight and unhindered, disappearing into the distance. The next two abruptly met something unseen and detonated, sending plumes of fire and metal flew outward toward him. The injured wraith sparked back to visibility amongst a chorus of debris. Relentless, Tar'Akon unloaded rapid bursts from his forward gun and watched satisfactory as the fighter exploded into waste.

Fury raged through his veins, and his eyes widened in eager anticipation as he sought his next targets. Two more wraiths were consumed in fireballs as he tracked them mercilessly one after another, a predator picking kills amongst a field of victims. Intoxicated in battle lust, he barely noticed a set of fighters materialize near him. One unleashed a hail of missiles, he took two direct hits to his flank and the shields barely absorbed the impact. The force sent his ship careening violently toward the arbiter anyway until he became enveloped in its cloaking field and finally regained control.

"Captain Andross, I received no notice for reinforcements," Nathaniel exclaimed as he levelled at another scout and set it ablaze with laser fire.

"Yeah, I diverted our guys here after seeing your engagement, I'm not going to let you have all the glory," came an almost light-hearted response. "Now let's take down that arbiter."

"Thanks, protect our run, we'll join afterward," Nathaniel commanded.

"Right-o."

"All fighters, disengage and focus on the target," Nathaniel ordered. Instantly, his ships broke from their maneuvering and aimed toward the nearby arbiter. The enemy Protoss fighters turned and raced after them, realized belatedly that they had been lead too far away from the arbiter to protect it. Andross's squadron cut them off and forced them to engage, leaving Nathaniel to deal with the lesser threat of the interceptors. A barrage of bullets materialized out of thin air and battered the wraiths, but Nathaniel chose his targets carefully and obliterated dozens of interceptors in turn.

Suddenly Andross's fighter cut in front of Nathaniel's, looping through interceptor fire and melting several of the small craft. "Me first!" Nathaniel heard Andross blaring in his headset. Nathaniel punched his throttle and rolled his eyes.

But a chilling cry of astonishment met his ears, and immediately afterwards Nathaniel noticed a bright flash out of his left side. Turning, he saw a lone scout soar out from underneath the cloaking field, darting through the wreckage of one of his wraiths. "Andross, look-" he exclaimed.

He did not finish his sentence. Bullets pelted Andross's left side, shredding the wing like paper, and the wraith suddenly teetered out of control. Missiles followed and impacted the fuselage, the tail burst into a fiery mess. A lone body expelled out of the wraith as the ship detonated, the helmet lurched off and Nathaniel was forced to veer to avoid it. A horrified, lifeless visage stared blankly at him as he passed. The expression looked eeriely familiar, it was Orson's own expression when they shipped his dead body back from Tolaris. Orson. Dead.

Nathaniel let out a scream and righted his ship, firing a haze of lasers toward the scout as it banked away from him. More explosions detonated nearby as the remaining wraiths targetted the arbiter and unleashed their deadly assault. Massive welts erupted along the arbiter's shields, then missiles penetrated and rocked against the exposed body, tearing sections from the hull. The cloaking field flickered and for an instant Nathaniel could see several fighters advancing towards him from the opposite side. But then they winked out, and only empty space greeted his eyes. The arbiter was still alive.

"No!" he cried, lost in his rage. As missiles exploded around him and interceptors buzzed relentlessly towards their targets, as screams of his fellow pilots erupted in his ears and blasts like popcorn peppered amongst the stars, as Protoss and Terran set their sights on murder and continued in their deadly game, as battlecruisers reached the forefront and massive lasers rocked against shield and hull, as all faded to nothing but a hazy buzzing in the background, Nathaniel turned his ship with singleminded anger towards the scout that had killed, heard his own shallow breathing echoing through his helmet, clutched the throttle until his fingers cramped, vowed to avenge.

IV

Tar'Akon laughed. Looking behind him, he saw a single craft pursuing after his. Amused, he let the fighter gain on him, strafed casually as a set of missiles roared towards him and missed their mark. When the wraith had neared, he slammed on his burners and sharply decelerated his fighter, his head snapped forward but he forced his gaze up, looking intently forward with his finger on the triggers as he waited for the hapless wraith to continue past him.

But this was no easily fooled prey. The wraith reacted instantly and banked down away from him while applying its own reverse thrusters, turning a full loop and then thrusting sharply upward. It unloaded a stream of laser fire into the underside of his ship, and his scout whipped violently as the shields collapsed and then the vulnerable armor. A panel exploded, Tar'Akon's neck yanked violently in response, causing his head to smash into the back of his helmet.

The world lost focus for an instant.

Tar'Akon shook off his nausea and reflexively veered his ship away as more laser fire sought with eagerness to end the battle. He roared with battle rage, his eyes burning blue, and turned his ship towards his lone opponent. The enemy wraith did not even bother cloaking, it merely maneuvered to press the attack. A call psychically rang in his mind, "Return, protect," but he muffled it and launched after the wraith. Cries from dying brethern followed and were ignored. For a moment, all faded into the distance as the two tiny ships circled in their deadly chase, a lone duel insignificant amongst a colossal battle as juggernauts met each other nearby and left burning death in their wake.

Tar'Akon panted as he swerved to and fro trying to outmaneuver the wraith. He kept his sights on the elusive fighter when suddenly it winked out of existance. Tar'Akon let off on his throttle in astonishment, peered around aghast, too late he saw the stars shimmering near him. The wraith materialized with its sights on him, and a pair of missiles rocked towards his cockpit. Swerving frantically, Tar'Akon managed to avoid one, but the other clipped the side of his fighter and the ensuing explosion sent his scout into an uncontrollable spin. More missiles trailed, he yanked violently on his control and managed to steer clear of the first few, but more met their mark and his fighter rocked terribly. Smoke blinded his cockpit, damage lights blared and competed for his attention, a massive plume of electric fire billowed from one of his engines.

"Captain, do you read me?!" demanded a very angry voice in Nathaniel's helmet. "Return at once and destroy your designated target. We need that arbiter destroyed or we all DIE!"

Death. Nathaniel was bloodthirsty for it, watching in amusement as the crippled fighter struggled to continue the battle, but he satisfactorily approached for the final pass. Death. Death was the glazed-over expression of Andross as he died even without even being able to face what killed him. Death was Orson's fate, sliced up and eviscerated by a Protoss warrior and sent home in a body bag; before Nathaniel became a wraith pilot because he realized he could kill more, avenge more, in the skies; before he fought through the ranks and the doubt; before he became one of the prized fighters in the fleet; before he proved himself and began to be sent on the most critical missions, ones that determined the war, ones that lead increasingly to more death.

Death was what entrusted the lives and welfare of countless people into his hands.

Nathaniel snapped out of it. The battle fury, the vengeance, Orson, all dissipated. He was Captain Nathaniel Donalds of the 18th Squadron, his mission was to destroy the support arbiter at the anterior of the fleet, lives hinged on this. He turned his fighter away from the Protoss scout, then started towards the distant target. The massive ship was venting plasma, fires raged along its sides, and only small complement of interceptors protectively darted near to protect the vulnerable craft. Shattered hulls of several small ships, wraiths and scouts alike, a ghastly soup of machine and metal, drifted smouldering beneath it. Beyond, cruisers and carriers raged, massive fires erupted like volcanos and lit up space, admist it all the arbiter heaved towards the center of the combat. A few wraiths, all that remained of his command, were struggling valiantly to defend themselves.

Nathaniel gazed down at his display and realized that he had spent all of his missiles. He wondered how many passes it would take to finish the brute craft. He slammed his first on the display in disgust, frustrated at how many missiles he had wasted on the scout he had left behind. Then he saw the alarm warning of the missiles that were streaking towards him from behind.

He managed to strafe slightly, but his ship then lurched to an impact on his rear near his engines. The wraith held together, but he noticed that the attack had, among other things, rendered one of his thrusters inoperative. The scout shot past him and engaged another couple of wraiths near the arbiter, reducing both of them to blazing wreckage. A trail of smoke billowed behind, evidence of the serious damage that it had incurred in its dogfight. Nathaniel should have finished off the scout. Should have been more alert. Should have not been distracted by death, by vengeance, by Orson. He wondered briefly if the Protoss thought about these things too at all.

But regardless, he knew he had a task. And he would complete it, even if the heavens fell.

V

Tar'Akon was surprised to see the wraith, venting flames from its rear thrusters, continue doggedly towards the arbiter. Perhaps he should have destroyed it. A certain sense of irony set in. No matter, he would finish the job now. The wraith was nearing range of the arbiter, but what could one lone fighter do? Interceptors reacted and met the wraith, pelting it as the pilot struggled to evade. He survived, continued forward, now was in range of the arbiter. But he did not fire. Multiple holes punctured into his ship's hull, more smoke and flames, he was barely holding the wraith together. He did not fire. His wraith was almost completely enveloped in its own smoke.

He did not fire.

Then Tar'Akon realized what was happening. He punched on his thrusters and sent his own crippled craft to intercept it.

"This is for Orson. It's not for this battle, it's not for this kill. It's for you, bro, and all the other Orsons who have died, and all the others who will survive because of this."

"Defend the arbiter, Tar'Akon," blared the psychic command into his mind.

Tar'Akon set his scout to intercept the wraith, now limping slower yet still steadily towards the arbiter. A human emboldened with such skill, such sacrifice, he mused. Such honor would come from his death, such recognition.

But was it honor that compelled this lone pilot, to urge him to sacrifice his life? This man died for something more. And yet he would he die in vain, denied from even achieving his last goal.

"Such a waste," Tar'Akon frowned to himself, too late realizing that he had broadcasted this psychically instead of speaking aloud. He diverted the scout's reserves to his engines, set toward the wraith, and used his last burst of power to rocket his craft on an intercept course.

Two pilots met and died a scant hundred or so feet from a massive arbiter. The nose of the scout gracefully scraped the underbelly of the wraith, pushed against it with urgency, then penetrated through. A spray of metal foamed from the wound like from a drill eating into dry wood. The nose collapsed as it intruded through the back of the cockpit, shoving aside the pilot's chair and causing Nathaniel's head to whip forward toward his chest. His neck broke, and he died instantly even as the remnant of the scout's nose shattered through the glass cockpit. The rest of the craft followed afterward, severing the wraith in two. The front of the wraith, still carrying Nathaniel's broken body, spiralled away trailing flames and burned to a lifeless husk.

The scout tumbled through the wreckage, the entire length of the craft consumed in blue flames, shards of metal shredding through the engines. The nose cone was crushed and bent, the cockpit smashed in and sprayed blue with Tar'Akon's blood, the fuselage venting smoke. Then the main body of what remained of the wraith whipped and struck the the scout as it bludgeoned through, the undersides meeting in a desperate embrace, then both erupted into a nova of blinding light. Debris bulleted outward and showered the nearby arbiter, riddling it with innumerable potmarks as the two fighters incinerated utterly.

Nobody noticed.

Nearby, a flurry of explosions continued to paint the skies like fireflies sparkling as ships burned and blazed, missiles chased after targets, lasers melted through hulls and machine and flesh. And through it lumbered a hulking arbiter, critically damaged but still tenuously clinging onto life. The ship slowed, then began to glow with unearthly power, bulkheads groaned and then split as the arbiter sought to contain the massive energy that was welling inside it. The space around the struggling craft folded and shifted violently like waves in a raging ocean, still the arbiter shone brighter and more fervently, almost angelic against the void of space. Finally, the vessel yielded to its struggle to contain the power it was harnassing, and imploded. A burst of radiance leaped from its core and bathed the battlefield like an unholy sun, consuming the arbiter by its own majesty.

And where it was, an armada of new crafts had materialized, eager to avenge their summoner.

Post

My brother died in the great war of Palathon. I walk in his footsteps. He died for the glory of the fleet, for the splendor of the battle. His last thought resounds in me still: "Such a waste", as indeed it is a waste for a noble warrior to exchange his life for a mere Terran opponent. Yet he achieved a death of the greatest honor, and his sacrifice presented an unattainable glory and inspiration to his Protoss bretherin. I am one, and his death shall burn as motivation in my own heart and that of all warriors of Aiur. I am Pak'Elian. I chase after the sweet taste of war, as did my brother before me. FOR HONOR.