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SCL Chapter 151: Desert Sun, Empty Guns
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 02:59:34 +0000 UTCHinterland Autonomous Region, Revolutionary Army Camp, Marshal's Command Post.
August 17, 2489. Local Time: 19:21.
In the Hinterland Autonomous Region, nestled near the equator on the southern hemisphere of Mar Sara, that damned fireball in the sky always refused to leave, stubbornly clinging to the orange-gray heavens. The long sunset slowly turned the clouds red, as if God had draped a crimson gradient cloth over the horizon.
Inside the dome-shaped tent serving as the temporary marshal’s command post, there was an old model of climate control unit—an obsolete piece discarded from the primary planet of Tarsonis four generations ago. It was said to adjust temperature, humidity, and even air pressure according to the user’s mood. Augustus believed this wasn’t entirely false advertising—in his experience, the temperature inside the tent depended solely on how hard he slammed the controls when he was freezing his ass off.
At the center of the dome tent sat a long alloy table hauled over from the Norad II battlecruiser’s armory. Beside it stood a weapons rack stacked with over a dozen types of electromagnetic and laser guns, and a coat rack used for hanging Revolutionary Army officer caps and greatcoats. On one wall, lined with reinforced neosteel plates, were tacked several paper wanted posters and a few newspaper clippings.
Everything in Augustus’ camp was kept simple—except for the chairs he and Raynor were sitting in, which clashed completely with the stern, no-nonsense military atmosphere. Taken from local gangster dens, these Tarsonis-style court chairs were elegant in both materials and craftsmanship. Their styles varied—from opulent Tarsonis luxury designs to the famous Char Sara solarwood seats—and even included one from the Pegasus II moon of the distant Umoja Dominion.
"Only a handful of the Pegasus Brotherhood are still at large, but I swear to God, those bastards will all be brought to justice sooner or later."
Inside the command post, it was officially just Raynor and Augustus, so Raynor didn’t bother acting like a proper Revolutionary Army major. He had his legs propped up on the long table.
"Looking like a real sheriff now, Jimmy."
No one could remember exactly when Augustus started calling Jim ‘Jimmy’—it was an affectionate nickname. So far, Raynor had only begrudgingly allowed Augustus and Tychus to use it. Anyone else, and it would’ve sounded way too soft—not the kind of name that fit a hard-ass.
"You got that right. We’ve already helped the local town marshals arrest over two thousand criminals—smugglers, drug traffickers, maglev train robbers. We even took care of a bunch of petty thieves while we were at it. Now there’s only the gang members still holed up in the towns left to deal with."
Augustus wore only a gray military shirt. While in camp, he always removed his flexible Umojan facial mask, showing his real face underneath.
"They still think it was the Confederate Marines who hit their hideouts in the wastelands and took away their missing buddies. The Marines are military—completely independent from the Mar Sara militia and police force. Aside from the governor, no one can even trace which fleet has been drifting around here recently."
Augustus had just turned nineteen. All things considered, he’d only been roaming around the Koprulu Sector for a little over a year. Yet the fair skin nurtured by his noble upbringing had already turned a healthy bronze, and he’d built up a sturdy, powerful physique. Even so, Augustus still didn’t grow a beard. He looked just the same as he always had in the public eye.
“These bastards have no right to call themselves cowboys. They've basically done every rotten thing imaginable,” Raynor said with clear disgust for the gangs that had fallen into his hands. “I’m willing to bet the local marshals have been napping all day.”
“Agents from the August National Security Committee—paid for a few fake IDs. A few days ago, they infiltrated Echo Town and found that the sheriff’s post has been vacant for quite some time. Apparently, the magistrate isn’t in any hurry to appoint a new sheriff to lead the headless marshals and officers.”
“What the hell is that magistrate thinking?” Raynor shook his head. “Did the last sheriff resign? Looks like he got reassigned to the Core Worlds.”
“I heard his corpse was hung at the entrance of Echo Town—everything below the chest was missing, but a bloody spinal column was still dangling there. Whatever he went through before he died, whoever did it butchered him like livestock using slaughterhouse gear,” Augustus said solemnly. “A lot of townsfolk mourned the sheriff, called him a man of integrity who died in the line of duty.”
“That’s rough,” Raynor muttered. “Whoever did that must’ve lost every shred of humanity.”
Just then, the tent’s flap was thrown open. Rory Swann barged in, rough and dusty, spun in place to let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the command post, and dropped into a court-style chair that probably cost ten times more than his grease-streaked overalls.
“The new batch of Ardeon crystals is loaded up—just waiting to be sent off to the fleet,” Swann announced as he stood up again to brush the dust off his seat. He glanced at Augustus. “Sorry, boss. Didn’t knock—couldn’t find a door to knock on.”
Lieutenant General Warfield of the Revolutionary Army was about to lead six heavily damaged battlecruisers—out of a fleet of fourteen—to the Umoja docks for major repairs. Their now-empty cargo bays were the perfect place to stash supplies.
Out in the field, Augustus’ fleet wasn’t exactly living in comfort. They were short on medical supplies and ammunition, with no replacements for lost troops. Mar Sara didn’t even have enough production lines to manufacture C-series Gauss rifle rounds. If the region hadn’t been so rich in mineral deposits, the Revolutionary Army wouldn’t have lasted here at all.
On top of that, as UNN reports indicated, at least six Confederate Navy squadrons were scouring the Koprulu Sector for signs of the rebel fleet. The news anchors used language like 'within days' or 'any moment now' when talking about discovering and crushing the fleeing rebels, emphasizing how few ships the rebels had left, how they were on the verge of collapse.
But comparatively, remote backwaters like Mar Sara rarely registered on the Confederacy’s radar.
“Tell the new workers they can take a break—for now,” Augustus said. “Roughly how much crystal are we talking?”
Augustus remembered that the Xel'Naga artifact on Mar Sara came from a mining outpost. His goal in coming to this planet had always been to retrieve that fragment. Whether or not he could eventually locate the rest and reassemble the artifact, he had to seize the initiative—make sure it didn’t fall into anyone else’s hands.
“By Kel-Morian standards, it's about 10,000 cubic meters—the size of a large swimming pool. If the market hasn’t changed, we could sell it for around 20 million Umoja Citizen Points,” Swann explained. “That’s a fortune—but it still won’t be enough to repair the warships, supply the new district in Umoja, or help them rebuild their cities and industry.”
“If we had a proper facility to cut and refine Ardeon crystals, we’d be making far more than just raw material profits. But Mar Sara is too damn far from Umoja—just the round trip takes nearly a month. It’s not worth the cost.”
That shipment represented about one month’s output from the canyon mining zone Augustus had labeled A-1. The A-1 zone was currently managed by one of Rory Swann’s cousins and manned primarily by local gang members undergoing labor reform, Kel-Morian specialists hired by Augustus to train miners, and a full Revolutionary Army company assigned to oversee security.
At present, Augustus also held two smaller mining zones, which together yielded only about one-tenth of A-1’s output. The advantage, however, was that they were close to each other—close enough that the Revolutionary Army camp could dispatch reinforcements quickly in case of emergencies.
Each mining site was overseen by a Revolutionary Army Level-Two Political Commissar personally appointed by Augustus. These commissars provided daily ideological instruction and political education to the miners after work. Posters and charts displaying productivity targets and slogans like 'Labor is the highest honor' were plastered all over the camp.
In addition, the commissars acted as military chaplains, leading prayers for religious workers—whether they worshipped God, Jesus, Allah, eldritch gods, or even Mar Sara itself.
“You really are a true Kel-Morian, Swann,” Augustus said with a smile. “As things stand, we can only sell to the Umojans. Even Arcturus’s own mining zone only supplies Umoja. The Kel-Morian Combine still isn’t trustworthy.”
“Unless we build a plant right here on Mar Sara to refine the raw crystals into high-purity ones, then further process them into armor plating or other battlecruiser-grade materials, we’re never going to see more profit from these mines,” Raynor added. He wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the mining industry. Unlike Tychus Findlay, who only cared about himself, Raynor had a deeper understanding of what the Revolutionary Army needed to stay afloat.
Having been away from the battlefield for nearly a month, the army’s engineers had only managed to patch up minor electronics on the battlecruisers. To get them back into full fighting shape, they’d need to return to a major military shipyard for proper dock repairs.
“You know as well as I do that there’s no way we can afford to build a full-fledged crystal processing chain on this planet,” Augustus said with a shrug. “The Confederate fleet could show up at any time—we have to be ready to pack up and run on a moment’s notice.”
“Then maybe we move the plant onto a ship. A large-scale mining vessel—kind of like those Tyrador whaling ships. They hunt and process everything right there on board. Same concept,” Swann suggested.
“I know the Kel-Morian Combine has ships like that. They operate entire raiding fleets made up of giant mining vessels,” Augustus nodded. “But the Kel-Morians never sell those ships to outsiders.”
“The situation’s changed,” Swann replied. He clearly knew more about the Combine’s current state than Augustus did. “My relatives back on Meinhoff told me that the Mining Guild can’t pay off the massive federal bonds they issued during the Four-Year War. The Combine’s economy is on the verge of collapse—most folks can’t even afford to eat.”
“At this point, they’re even willing to sell battlecruisers.”
“Hm—I was already planning a trip to Moria,” Augustus nodded.
“Well, isn’t that a sweet deal?” Raynor dropped his boots from the table. “You’re a Kel-Morian. How can you let us do something like that?”
“If people can’t survive, then what’s the point of anything else?” Swann sighed. “The Revolutionary Army will provide the Kel-Morian Combine with a large amount of Umoja hard currency reserves. At least it’ll help ease the immediate crisis.”
“Things will get better. Eventually.”
