Long War's End

Standing on the bridge of the Kotick, Matthew Horner, former admiral of the Terran Dominion, reflected that there might have been better retirement gifts than seeing the Scarith Boneyard from above.

Key word being might, granted. Truth was, he didn't want, nor need, a retirement gift. At the ripe age of 93, he was happy to retire on a world far more pleasant than Korhal, and live out his remaining days to his heart's content. The desires of his life had long been about truth, justice, and liberty, and he figured that he'd done his best to achieve them.

Alas, he was a decorated commander. He'd had to play his role in the show. To receive a medal from Emperor Valerian, take a shuttle up to the Anaheim-class battlecruiser hanging in the sky above, and keep waving through the bridge's plasteel windows in case any of the jackals saw that he wasn't smiling. Now, an hour later, he was here. The end of his celebration run.

"You know, every so often I look at the sat-surveys of this place. On average, there's a new warship added every three months."

The former admiral looked at the man coming up to join him. "One might call that a waste."

"One might. But like you, people have long stopped caring what I think."

Matt smiled. "You're selling yourself short."

"Maybe," Valerian murmured, coming to stand beside the admiral. "Maybe..."

Matt didn't answer. Nor did he voice his suspicion that this little trip across the plains of Korhal was as much for Valerian's sake as his. A chance to get away from the palace, and from constant questions as to when Prince Octavius would take the throne. The two men were roughly the same age, but in Matt's eyes, Valerian had aged poorer. His golden hair long turned grey, his sword replaced with a walking stick, his eyes weighed down by weariness and time. He was nearly twice as old as his father had been when he'd been dethroned, and while some might call that a blessing...well, by Valerian's standards, Arcturus Mengsk had died young. And Arcturus Mengsk cast a shadow even now, that Valerian couldn't escape.

The emperor took a cigar out of his pocket. Smirking, Horner accepted and used his laser-lighter to activate it.

"To an early grave," Valerian said.

"To an early grave," Matt repeated.

The two men stood in silence as the Kotick continued its journey across the boneyard. Ships long past their time, sent here to rust, or better, be repurposed into new weapons of war. Because that had been the way of the Koprulu sector since terrans had arrived all those centuries ago. It had been the way of things since a fateful day in the twilight of the 25th century, when first contact had been made with two alien races. What had followed were four horrific wars in the space of a decade, killing millions, destroying worlds, and threatening the fate of the universe itself, and then...silence. Silence broken by constant skirmishes across the sector and beyond, between and within races alike, but silence nonetheless. Of all the campaigns that he'd conducted over the years, nothing had compared to what he'd seen over half a century ago.

He could even make out some of the warships that had been sent here. The Morhaime. The Metzen. The Phinney. The Browder. Good ships. Imperfect ships. Ships that had been captained by good men and women, who'd lost their lives, or their command, before their time. Ships etched into the annals of history.

To an early grave, Matt reflected, taking a puff of the cigar. How many of these ships got one?

He liked to think that they hadn't. But times changed. Technology improved. Society shifted. War might be a constant, but it had become a thing of the past. Which was good, of course, but it meant that there was less of a place for men like him in this world. Less of a place for these warships. Even...

Oh my.

Valerian had spotted it too, given the way he sighed. Given the way he looked at Matt and said, "I'd have preferred it to be converted into a museum. But the Military Heritage Council settled on the Bucephalus instead."

Matt forced a smile. "The Bucephalus is a good ship."

"It is. I mean, was. But...well, we both know two things don't we?"

"That an emperor can't always get his way?"

"That," Valerian murmured, puffing at his own cigar, "and that the Bucephalus was never really the heart of the fleet."

Matt brushed something out of his eye. "Maybe not," he murmured. "Maybe not..."

Valerian didn't say anything. And if the shell of the Hyperion down below did, it was just as silent.

It had been a decade ago. Truth was, it should have been retired decades before that. It had been an antique by the Second Great War, and had only remained viable through Swann's insanity, Raynor's grit, and a hell of a lot of duct tape. Now, Rory Swann was long dead. James Raynor had long since disappeared. Raynor's Raiders no longer existed as a unit, its remaining members dispatched to various branches of the Dominion military. And the Hyperion was left here. Finally given its rest, after all its years of service. A ship one found in history digi-tomes, but not a ship that was afforded the respect it once had. War, despite what some old geysers said, had changed. It had changed in a way that even the very concept of capital ships was becoming obsolete, when so much conflict was carried out in brushfire skirmishes. Even the zerg, caught up in their eternal schism between Zagara and Ni'adra, had never engaged in the mass assaults of yesteryear.

"You know Matt, for what it's worth...thank you," Valerian said.

The ex-admiral looked at him. "For what sir?"

"For stomaching this. The parade, the medals, the media, everything." Valerian looked at the ex-rebel and smiled. "I don't know if we could ever call each other friends, but..."

Matt chuckled and extinguished his cigar. "Don't get cute Valerian. You're still the son of a madman."

"And you're still rebel scum."

Valerian laughed as well, but it was more forced. "Rebel scum" was what he'd once had to deal with on a daily basis, before the old guard had retired or passed away. The only difference, Matt reflected, was that the Dominion as it currently stood, was worth preserving. Not that Moria, or Umoja, or over a dozen planets saw it that way, but...He sighed. Maybe a century from now, he'd be remembered as being the right hand of a tyrant, and some new, glorious new government would rise from the ashes of Korhal. But then, the grass was always greener. And decades past its nuclear holocaust, Korhal was at least greening.

Valerian walked away from the window and took a seat in the bridge's command chair. The bridge of the Kotick was so large, even here, they were far removed from the bridge crew, spread around the edge. Many of them logged into the Acti-vision system – a superluminal network that allowed maximum efficiency through the Dominion military with minimal staff. And as effective as the network, and most mid 26th century technologies were…he sighed. Matt knew it was silly, but the ship felt so...empty. Like it was without soul. Yes, the Anaheim-class battlecruiser was the largest warship humanity had ever constructed, and yes, over a trillion credits had gone into its development, but the ships of yore...they'd had more soul, if such a thing existed. Maybe it was because he was in a new generation - men and women who'd grown up without the shadow of annihilation hanging over them. Or maybe he was just getting old.

No planet for old men eh? He followed Valerian, and asked, "so what's next?"

Valerian looked up at him. "Excuse me?"

"This peace we're in. No zerg swarming us, no protoss glassing us, no xel'naga bent on annihilating us..."

"There's always Earth," Valerian said. He sighed. "But then, there's the rest of mankind as well. No big alien threat to fight, so we fight each other."

Matt remained silent. He could tell from Valerian's voice that he missed it as well. That like him, he was torn between the dual horrors and glories of the past, and the safe, sterile, secure promises of the present. That even benevolent despots missed war at the end of the day.

"I think the peace will last," Valerian said eventually. "There'll be war. Not like there once was. No massive armies moving across battlefields. Just more of what we have. Small scale brushfire conflicts."

Matt didn't say anything. He just nodded, turned around, and walked back to the window. Imagining his younger self looking at him. Asking him if this was the world he wanted.

Yes. And no. But in the end, it didn't matter. He might as well be in the boneyard as the ships below. A man of a time that had passed him by.

A man, standing on the bridge of a warship, having reached his war's end.


A/N

So recently (as of this time of writing), Blizzard's announced that active development of StarCraft II has ceased.

Truth be told, that announcement in of itself doesn't bother me too much, considering that this is a ten year old game we're talking about. However, it's not an announcement that can be taken in isolation, considering Activision's influence on Blizzard, and the state of the RTS genre in general. How I feel about those things can be more or less gleaned from what I've written above. But whatever the case, drabbled this up.

Also, I hardly ever do this, but I'm going to plug another oneshot I've posted titled March of the Giants. If this covers the "StarCraft side" of things, that covers the Warcraft side.