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SCL Chapter 146: One Day, We Return
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 15:46:13 +0000 UTCThough Valerian was physically frail and fond of reading poetry, after Augustus had last spoken with him, the boy had started to toughen up.
“In my memory, Augustus was still no bigger than Valerian is now.”
Arcturus hadn’t noticed it, but the emotional distance between him and Valerian was slowly beginning to close.
Still, there was a lingering tension—something unresolved—in how they related to each other.
At their last meeting, Arcturus had been surprised to find that the son who once filled him with disappointment had become a boy who refused to cry, no matter the situation. That shift had planted the idea in Arcturus’s heart: maybe Valerian really could be his heir. Of course, to keep the boy from growing complacent, Arcturus made sure to maintain his stern, imposing presence.
“Speaking of which—why don’t you go see Speaker Angus? He’s already arrived in New Styrling. He’s talking with my father right now,” Juliana said.
“You don’t need to show him that much respect,” Arcturus replied with visible irritation.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“Angus would’ve done us all a favor if he’d died on Korhal. Because if I see him, we’re going to fight.”
“I respect him because he’s the father of you and Augustus, and the grandfather of Valerian,” Juliana said with a calm smile.
“But deep down, you still love him.”
“I hate him.”
Arcturus flung open the curtains in the room, anger flashing in his eyes.
Spread out before Arcturus was the orange-yellow sky of Umoja, and beyond it, an endless sprawl of prefabricated and modular housing units. Each structure rose over ten stories tall, all sharp-edged monoliths of identical design. In the sky, dragonfly-winged Umojan drones flitted through the air, while supply ships occasionally emerged from clouds stacked like mountain ranges.
Right next to the temporary city hall was an open-air market, buzzing with voices. Korhalans bartered and traded with Umojan paper currency, the crowd alive with motion and noise.
“Alright, I won’t bring him up again.”
Juliana stepped beside Arcturus, her voice soft.
“You were the one who paid to acquire and ship factory modules from the Kel-Morian Combine, to rebuild Korhal’s fragile but vital industrial base. You’ve provided far more food to the Korhalan people than the Umojans ever have—kids even get eggs and milk.”
“Because they’re my people.”
Arcturus said it as naturally as breathing. As a descendant of the ruling aristocracy of Korhal, it was only natural that he saw the Korhalans as his own.
But that compassion, that generosity, extended only to Korhalans.
His share of the wealth from the massive strip mines had gone entirely to supporting the Korhalan refugees pouring into Umoja. He himself lived modestly, even frugally.
Though the Umojan government had funded the construction of the refugee camps, along with their water, power infrastructure, and operating costs for three years, building a functioning city capable of supporting 20 million people required investments only Arcturus could provide.
Fortunately, the Umojan government had pledged to allocate 3% of all tax revenue—across Umoja and its dominions—to fund the construction and basic operation of a Korhalan-majority city, at least until the region could sustain itself.
For now, no one was starving or freezing.
But Umoja was far from a temperate garden world.
For the Korhalans, adapting to this world would mean enduring trials harsher than anything their ruined homeworld had ever thrown at them.
“You also hired thousands of skilled Kel-Morian miners. And during the market turmoil following the Combine's peace treaty with the Confederacy, you managed to purchase entire stockpiles of mineral-scanning rigs and Kel-Morian planetary extractors—enough to fill two orbital starports—at rock-bottom prices,” Juliana added.
“What now? Planning to lead them into the mines yourself?”
“You ask too many questions.”
Arcturus glanced at her, quoting a well-worn proverb: “If you want to be rich, start by digging.”
After that, the two of them fell silent.
The only sound left in the room came from the TV screen.
“Moral collapse. Forced prostitution. Selling people into slavery...”
“This is a violation of humanitarian values! Angus and his lackeys have shattered the balance of order for their own selfish gain. They seek to upend the world—to build a feudal dynasty ruled by the Mengsk family atop the free and lawful government of the Terran Confederacy!”
“We have reason to believe that the Korhalan rebels possess weapons of mass destruction. They are believed to be illegally stockpiling between 10 and 30 Apocalypse-class nuclear warheads. In order to protect the people of Korhal from the rebel menace… we destroyed Korhal IV.”
“...”
“Interview? Are you kidding me? The Korhalans are shitting on our heads! The Confederate Navy is a pack of useless cowards!”
“...”
“Welcome to the Flanx Vomerian Special: Augustus Mengsk of Heaven’s Devils – How Did a Hero of the People Fall So Far?”
“Augustus Mengsk—a bloodthirsty butcher, a cannibalistic demon, a sex maniac, a cross-dressing deviant. He straps high-yield explosives to women and children to attack the rebels, orders underage kids to pilot landing-gear-less fighters straight into Navy warships. His thugs once hijacked a freighter and rammed it into the Confederate Security Bureau headquarters—”
“...”
Arcturus's face twisted as if he had been choked mid-breath.
“They’ve gone too far slandering Augustus,” Juliana sighed.
“He used to be a hero of the Confederacy.”
“He’s not anymore,” Arcturus replied, though he didn’t sound surprised.
“Why don’t they ever show what happened to Korhal?”
After a long silence, a revolutionary fighter entered the room.
Emblazoned on his arm was the sigil of Sons of Korhal—distinct from the emblem of the general revolutionary forces. This version of the ringed whip symbol lacked the central pentagram, and the whip itself was lined with sharp, jagged serrations.
“You formed the Sons of Korhal,” Juliana said quietly.
“A real terrorist organization.”
“If the Confederacy already calls us terrorists—then so be it,” Arcturus said.
“Someone had to do it.”
He pointed out the window toward the city, his eyes on the faces—thousands of them, each different, each carrying the same weight.
“They’re my people.”
“I’ll fight for Korhal.”
“So that one day, everyone has a home to return to.”
...
2489.7.24
Joeyray's Bar
This grimy little dive was long overdue for a renovation. Situated in the crimson wastelands of the planet Mar Sara, the bar was cobbled together from rusted freighter paneling, salvaged rebar, circuit boards, and cheap glass. Its rooftop, caked in rust-colored dust, supported a satellite TV antenna lashed together with fraying cables.
When the gusting sandstorms that swept across this arid world finally died down, sunlight filtered through the bamboo-lacquered blinds behind the bar’s windows, casting delicate threads of gold across the long counter in front of Jim Raynor.
Raynor, wearing a pair of sunproof gloves, held a bottle of No. 8 Whiskey, tilting it gently to refill the glass before him. The green-tinted bottle gleamed with golden light in the sun. Folks around here didn’t use the climate-stabilizing regulators manufactured in the Core Worlds—they still relied on fans for some semblance of relief from the heat.
Compared to its sister planet Char Sara—lush with dense forests and fertile lands—Mar Sara’s orbit lay closer to the system’s star. Its ozone-depleted atmosphere offered little protection from the sun’s brutal rays, which scorched the planet’s surface without mercy. Around 70% of Mar Sara had been baked into desolation over the course of its existence, the parched and hardened ground sparsely dotted with stubborn shrubs and dry grasses that somehow clung to life.
A pocket-sized projector was playing last week’s news from the UNN galactic broadcast. A female senator from the Terran Confederacy was shouting herself hoarse, urging citizens across the Confederacy to remain vigilant against the growing rebel threat. She branded Angus Mengsk and his son as the most heinous terrorist leaders in history:
“A deranged terrorist! Human filth! And those in the Marines who pinned medals on Augustus Mengsk are just as damnable!”
The bar didn’t get much business during the day. Only when the heat eased off at night would the locals trickle in to drink and seek a little fun. For now, Joeyray’s Bar remained quiet, filled only with the hum of the fans and the voice of the newscaster.
“We have always believed that justice will prevail!”
The senator raised both arms high, while her aides behind her waved the Confederacy’s Star-and-X banner.
“Even if Augustus Mengsk and his band of traitors flee to the edge of the galaxy—we will find them, capture them, and bring them to public trial!”
“Hear that, you bastard? They’re coming for you, Augustus,” Raynor chuckled, teasing his old friend. “They’re gonna lock you up and tell the whole sector justice has been served.”
“I’ve met her before. Some bitter woman named Bimonchi. Distant kin of the Tygore family.”
A cowboy stepped through the bar’s swinging doors, the brim of his wide hat casting a shadow over his eyes.
“Her figure’s just as dull and unpleasant as her personality.”
He set a capacitor-based electromagnetic pistol down on the table in front of Raynor.
“Oh—can’t say I remember much about her. Only thing that stuck with me was how damn good the Tygore family’s raspberry cake and wine were.”
Raynor didn’t bother to turn around, just kept sipping from his glass of whiskey. This particular brand of whiskey was considered cheap swill in the Core Worlds, but out here on Mar Sara—one of the so-called original colonies that had long since stagnated—it was something you had to splurge on to get your hands on.
“Still the same old No. 8 Whiskey. We used to drink this all the time back at the barracks—yeah, that was back during basic training on Turaxis.”
The cowboy stepped fully into the bar. His build was fit and well-proportioned, clad in a black vest with elegant patterns. The vest buttons were etched with images of eagles and wolves, and four large pockets held four revolvers. His trousers, made of thick wool, offered protection against sunburn and the razor-sharp brambles of Mar Sara’s wilderness.
His reindeer-leather boots were finely crafted, their high shafts creaking audibly against the wooden floorboards.
Such attire was common on the hot, dry world of Mar Sara. Their cowboy hats were always broad and tall, shielding them from both sun and sandstorms—and when needed, could even be used to scoop water. Cowboys here often adorned their clothing, pant legs, and boots with gleaming metal studs and buttons—symbols of status in a culture that revered ruggedness.
This was a world that worshipped grit. Lawmen and sheriffs under the authority of the Marshals rode their modified Vulture bikes across the deserts and wastelands, hunting down outlaws and troublemakers.
