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SCL Chapter 128: Hiring the Damned
🕑 Added 2025-06-23 04:35:06 +0000 UTCAs the Norad II docked, Augustus noticed something unusual—docked in another bay was a battlecruiser that clearly didn’t belong to his fleet. In fact, it looked even more battered than the heavily damaged Iron Justice.
It appeared to be a Terran Leviathan-class battlecruiser, though its slender frame lacked the signature hammerhead design of the Behemoth-class. The bow and both flanks were outfitted with massive, multi-barrel railguns, giving it the appearance of a steel monstrosity bristling with heavy artillery.
Judging by the extensive modifications it had undergone, the ship likely had as many years of upgrades as it did of active service. It now looked quite different from the Leviathan-class Augustus remembered. Still, there was no doubt—it was noticeably smaller than a Behemoth-class.
“That’s the Jackson’s Revenge,” Hill said to Augustus. “That battlecruiser defected from the Terran Federation fleet probably before you were even born. They're some of the most notorious space pirates out there—second only to the Kel-Morian raiders.”
“They paid a hefty docking fee,” Hill added. “And those pirates are infamous for their tempers. I’m not about to kick them out.”
“After all, this station doesn’t belong to me. If they blow the place to bits, I’d be the one going bankrupt.”
“Sometimes they even take jobs from megacorps—though not many dare to hire them. They’re the kind who wouldn’t think twice about hijacking their client’s cargo mid-mission.” Hill gave a dry chuckle.
“Sarah. Call in my Styrling Guard,” Augustus said, turning to Kerrigan.
“I’m going to have a word with those pirates.”
A few seconds later, he added, “And bring Tychus here. Damn it, where did he wander off to this time?”
By now, the Norad II had fully docked. About two companies of Marines in silver-gray powered armor were arrayed across the cleared platform in perfect formation.
With his honor guard at his side, Augustus headed toward the docking bay where the Jackson’s Revenge was berthed.
Ever since the Norad II had entered port, the pirates had clearly raised their guard. Some of them stood several hundred meters away, watching the rows of Marines with hawk-like vigilance.
“At first, they thought we were a Terran Federation fleet,” Kerrigan explained as she walked beside Augustus. “These guys once had a bloody encounter with Alpha Squadron. Edmund Duke himself took off a few pirate heads.”
“So what made them change their minds?” Augustus asked.
“Because if it were Duke,” Kerrigan said coolly, “he’d have already blasted this whole station—and the pirates along with it—into space debris.”
As Augustus and his group approached the Jackson’s Revenge, a pirate clad in Kel-Morian Ripper-class powered armor walked toward them, accompanied by several others wearing old Terran Federation naval uniforms. The man showed no sign of intimidation, even in the face of the fully armed Marines standing behind Augustus.
“It’s hard to say why these men took their warship and split from the Terran Federation in the first place,” Hill whispered as they drew nearer. “But originally, they were all Federation soldiers—at least they still clung to some kind of moral baseline back then.”
“But what you’re seeing now,” he added grimly, “are depraved, vicious cutthroats. After so many years of deep-space isolation, the crew of the Jackson’s Revenge no longer thinks the way normal people do.”
“Within that small, self-contained world aboard the ship, the pirates follow a strict hierarchy—survival of the strongest. To gain power or wealth, they’ll betray their own comrades, even resort to killing each other.”
“The current captain, if I’m not mistaken, is the ninth one. Rumor has it he shot the last one in the back. That’s why no one is ever allowed to stand behind him armed.”
“Every captain is called Jackson—but some were spineless, while others were downright monstrous.”
“You’re Augustus Mengsk?” the pirate asked, flipping up the matte visor on his helmet to reveal a crooked nose, clearly broken multiple times, and a bald head with a steel plate embedded in his forehead.
“I’m Lieutenant Rath—Captain Jackson’s right-hand man.”
Aside from that, the rugged pirate was also wearing a pair of glittering teardrop crystal earrings—the kind Augustus had once seen on the ears of a noblewoman from one of the Old Families of Tarsonis.
“I am,” Augustus replied calmly, not at all surprised that the man recognized him. If once he had been revered as the leader of the Heaven’s Devils, a hero of the Federation, now the slander hurled against him had grown exponentially.
Overnight, Heaven’s Devils had become synonymous with rebellion—its name dragged from honor to infamy. In the eyes of many Terrans, Augustus’s name now carried even greater weight than that of his father.
Almost the instant he responded, Lieutenant Rath drew the electromagnetic pistol from his hip—and within seconds, everyone present had their weapons raised.
“I don’t believe we have any personal quarrel,” Augustus said coldly, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the pirate.
“How the hell am I supposed to know what you’re planning?” the pirate sneered, staring right back at Augustus. “A bunch of rebels? You’ve got some serious nerve.”
“Teach him a lesson,” Augustus said.
Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, molten gold flickered in Kerrigan’s eyes. The pirate instantly dropped his pistol in agony and staggered backward before collapsing onto the floor with a heavy thud.
Just as his men began to raise their weapons, Tychus and a squad of Styrling Guard stormed in, tackling the pirates to the ground and dealing out swift, bone-crushing blows.
Before tensions could escalate any further, Augustus stepped forward and loomed over the pirate who now sat dazed on the floor.
“Tell your Captain Jackson to get out here.”
“I don’t care if he’s the first, the fifth, or the ninth Jackson—just get his ass out here. I don’t have time to stand around listening to a vermin like you chirping nonsense. Do you understand me?”
...
“Two standard weeks. Thirty million Federal credits or two million Umojan citizen points. Cash only.”
There was no negotiation table. The pirate captain and the increasingly infamous leader of the Korhal rebels—now well-known to Terran citizens for his insurgent activities—stood face-to-face on the open docking platform. Behind both leaders stood rows of warriors clad in powered armor.
Only a small portion of the pirates aboard the Jackson’s Revenge wore customized powered armor, clearly the result of dealings with their elusive comrades—the Kel-Morian pirates.
Their suits were outfitted with sharpened shards of ship plating as armor, and their Gauss rifles featured bayonets that stretched nearly a third of the weapon’s entire length. Cybernetic limb modifications were also prominently visible across their bodies.
By contrast, the soldiers behind Augustus stood in a perfectly disciplined formation. These were the Styrling Honor Guard, all in deep-gray painted power armor adorned with golden wolfhead insignias. Calm and silent, they moved with precision, like a single organism.
These loyal soldiers from Korhal IV viewed Augustus as the only hope of salvation for their homeworld and were ready to lay down their lives to protect the leader of the revolution.
Captain Jackson’s mechanical left eye gleamed with a piercing crimson glow. Deep scars carved across his broad forehead, some exposing bone. His thick, gray-brown beard and mustache were trimmed to sharp points, and atop his head sat a tall-brimmed captain’s hat still bearing the insignia of the Federal Navy—dragon wings and anchor.
This notorious captain—whose reputation stank just as badly as his persistent body odor—was known by many names: Jackson the Ninth, the Pipe-Smoking Tyrant, Warlord of the Koprulu Sector, and the Beacon of Terran Humanity.
“I don’t accept bank transfers or checks. However, rare crystal ore of equivalent value will do. If you’ve got high-purity crystals, business will go a lot smoother.” Jackson spoke around a briarwood pipe clenched between his teeth. His heavy naval commodore’s coat bulged with an assortment of pipes and tins of tobacco.
“I intend to hire this ship and its entire crew for the long term. Beyond that, my people can also supply you with fuel, weapons, and upgrades for your ship’s armor and armaments,” said Augustus. “In return, I request that the commission fee be cut in half.”
“Doing business with rebels is a hell of a risk,” Jackson exhaled a large, round puff of smoke. “I’d wager the Federal Navy is hot on your tail.”
“Yes. Duke’s Alpha Squadron is currently hunting us,” Augustus replied bluntly, neither dodging the question nor attempting to cover it up.
“In that case, I believe you should pay more,” Jackson replied without much emotion, though his crew behind him visibly tensed at the mention of Duke’s name.
During peacetime, with no battles to fight, Edmund Duke had always set his sights on the Jackson’s Revenge—many of his medals had come from beheading pirate captains or blasting several inches off the ship’s hull with heavy artillery.
Though most of the crew aboard this pirate vessel were no longer part of its original batch of Federal Navy defectors, they still harbored deep resentment toward the relentless pursuit by Alpha Squadron.
“Unless you prove yourselves worth the extra pay,” Augustus didn’t back down. “Even if my old friend Hill were vouching for you, I still wouldn’t be certain you wouldn’t vanish with the payment.”
“No, I’m not vouching for them,” said Graven Hill, hastily waving his hands in protest.
“Deal—Graven Hill will vouch for us, since he’s someone we both trust,” Jackson countered, casting a glance at Tychus beside Augustus. “You pay first, and then we’ll sign the contract.”
“Both steps can be done simultaneously,” Augustus replied. “I’ll pay in rare crystal ore.”
“Now that’s the kind of man I like,” Jackson grinned. “So tell me, aside from fighting the Federal Navy, what else do you need us to do?”
“You can formally integrate this ship into your fleet. Whether as flagship or escort, the Jackson’s Revenge can handle either role.”
Jackson proudly gestured at his battlecruiser, as if to demonstrate that it was worth every bit of the price Augustus was offering.
“Looks like a piece of junk to me,” Tychus said bluntly, showing no courtesy to these outlaws. Then, with even sharper sarcasm, he added: “This heap held together with glue… can it even fly?”
