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SCL Chapter 129: Ashes, Smoke, and Pink Hair
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 03:18:33 +0000 UTCNo matter how furious Jackson and his crew became, no matter how glorious this vessel might once have been, the Jackson’s Revenge now looked like a battleship cobbled together from metal scrap—utterly unrecognizable. The emblem beneath the bridge’s side windows and near the thrusters had clearly been replaced multiple times, over and over, by each successive captain.
This Leviathan-class battlecruiser, which had entered service in the early days of the Terran Federation, was now seen by the Federal Navy as a disgrace. The Jackson’s Revenge, along with its original registration and the reasons for its defection, had gradually become a state secret—absolutely forbidden from public disclosure.
After years of harassing merchant ships near the Federation’s major trade routes, many commercial captains had witnessed the Jackson’s Revenge unleashing its artillery with their own eyes. And they recognized its model—it was unmistakably a Leviathan-class battlecruiser, still in active service with the Federal Navy.
The Federal Navy eventually admitted that a single battlecruiser had indeed gone missing during an operation, but claimed that all crew members had perished. Thus, the Jackson’s Revenge was officially considered nothing more than a ghost ship drifting aimlessly through space.
Savvy media figures quickly drew their own conclusions: the ship had either fallen into the hands of a band of outlaws, or some supernatural force had taken control of it.
“Kid, we’ve seen more main sequence stars, neutron stars, and white dwarfs than your walnut-sized brain could ever imagine!” one of Jackson’s helmsmen shouted furiously as he stormed toward Tychus.
This pirate, clad in a ragged sailor’s vest and wearing a blue-and-white striped bandana, wasn’t equipped with powered armor. As everyone watched him charge toward Tychus Findlay—who stood calmly with his hands behind his back beside Augustus—they were unsurprised to see the latter swat him aside like a fly, slamming him to the floor and nearly cracking his skull.
The scuffle ended there. Embarrassed, Captain Jackson clearly had no intention of escalating the matter. There were three rebel battlecruisers docked at this space station, and if he wanted to leave here safely, he had no choice but to de-escalate.
“That’s enough, Tychus. Show a little kindness to our friends,” Augustus said. He understood exactly what Tychus was trying to do—provoke a conflict and wipe out the pirates inside the station, then seize the Jackson’s Revenge for themselves.
Though now would have been the perfect opportunity to eliminate the pirate crew, Augustus had no desire to spark a confrontation with them.
“This is a Terran Federation signal tracker,” Augustus said, handing Jackson a precision device disguised as a music box. “Activate it, and it will draw in Edmund Duke’s Alpha Squadron.”
“Sounds like a Pied Piper for rats,” Jackson muttered, accepting the tracker.
“What I want you to do is lead Alpha Squadron to the outer edge of the Koprulu Sector—as far from the Terran Federation’s core worlds as possible.”
“But is Duke really that easy to fool?” Jackson asked, skeptical that such a small contraption could be so effective.
“It’ll work, at least for a time,” Augustus replied with a slight smile. “And for me, that’s all the time I need.”
“Knowing Duke the way I do…”
“He’ll fall for it.”
June 11, 2489.
Deadman’s Port was shrouded in overcast skies.
It always was.
Thick fog cloaked the sun during most of the year, rarely dissipating, leaving the sky perpetually veiled in a gray haze.
Fifteen-year-old Mira Han believed there were places in the world where sunlight bathed the land year-round and flowers bloomed with every season—but Deadman’s Port wasn’t one of them. Unrestrained industrial activity had ravaged the fragile ecosystem of this planet. Wastewater flowed into its rivers and lakes like venom injected into the veins of Deadman’s Port itself.
Mira and her fellow workers trudged along a muddy path made slick by rain, heading toward a high-energy gas refinery belching thick black smoke. Without exception, the workers were dressed in polyester clothing with waterproof canvas coats layered on top, and wore rubber boots to protect against the muck.
There were around forty to fifty workers in the group, about a third of whom were women and children aged thirteen or fourteen. Even the elderly were still working—at least until their bodies completely gave out.
Though few of them had ever received a proper education, the workers knew exactly what was poisoning the atmosphere of their world.
They understood these pollutants would eventually fall back down, circulating through the planet’s weather systems until they rained down on the people of Deadman’s Port again. Even if the current damage hadn’t yet left permanent scars, the reckoning would be borne by their children and grandchildren.
But no matter what, humanity remained shortsighted. The upper management of these corporations likely understood perfectly well the horror of what they were unleashing—they simply didn’t care.
Once Deadman’s Port was stripped of every last ounce of value, both the planet and its people would be discarded without hesitation. Perhaps the workers would be relocated as cheap labor to other worlds, but Deadman’s Port would inevitably be reduced to a forgotten wasteland.
A few years ago, the Terran Federation governor of Deadman’s Port had signed a secret treaty with several interstellar mega-corporations. Since then, freight barges had begun dumping industrial waste across the barren lands of the planet. Many decommissioned starships had also been hauled here to be scrapped.
Out of sight from the people of Deadman’s Port, their home was slowly turning into a landfill—a graveyard for ships and machines. The truth might only come to light years later, but by then it would be far too late.
“How can this be happening?”
A young worker walking beside Mira Han—only a little older than she was—voiced his frustration loudly: “I’m paid the lowest wage in the entire Koprulu Sector, I survive on food that barely keeps my body functioning, I break my back doing the harshest, most mind-numbing labor, and I work 14 Earth-hours a day without complaint!”
“What do we get in the end? Lasting damage from overwork, illness, disability—and poverty when we can no longer work.”
“We toil away, yet all the money goes to those sitting in their offices.”
“What good does complaining do?” someone else cut in. “Deadman’s Port can’t even grow crops anymore. Even the rivers can run dry. If we don’t go to the factories, what else is there? Nobody even wants servants anymore.”
“Our ancestors gave this planet a cursed name the moment they arrived. I swear, the onboard AI on that colony ship that mistook Deadman’s Port for a habitable world must have malfunctioned.”
“You could try O’Bannon,” said an older voice. “There’s always work there.”
“A lot of the kids under him have made big money—but I’ve also heard plenty of people died trying to earn that dirty cash.”
Mira Han shook her head. Everyone knew exactly what that 'dirty cash' meant: drug manufacturing and trafficking, human trafficking, organ sales, prostitution, money laundering... every imaginable kind of crime.
Ever since Deadman’s Rock had grown more unstable, life for its people had only worsened. Those who couldn’t survive—or refused to endure life as factory slaves—either scraped together enough to leave, or turned to jobs that were less grueling and paid far more.
People complained about the harsh factory life, but after the Guild Wars and the Korhal IV uprising shook the markets, corporations began pulling their investments out of Deadman’s Rock. Soon, even stable factory work would disappear entirely.
On Deadman’s Rock—oppressive and stratified as it was—there was no such thing as a future anymore.
“Hey, I heard the Revolutionary Army from Korhal IV is recruiting right here in Deadman’s Port,” said a voice that sounded unusually cheerful, untouched by the bleak atmosphere around them.
Mira looked up, just as she yanked her boots from the sucking mud. The voice belonged to a lanky boy in ragged work clothes. “They pay wages—on time, every month—and higher than the Terran Marines, too.”
“The Revolutionary Army?” An old man shook his head. “They’re rebels! Do you know what they do? Arson, murder, looting—they’re ruthless. They kidnap children, assault women… pure evil.”
“They seemed pretty kind to me...” the cheerful voice hesitated. “I mean, that Gustav Mengsk from the Revolutionary Army—he must be a good man.”
“He hands out bread to the kids. He brings doctors to treat people. His engineers built water towers in the industrial district and replaced the old water lines. He hires workers—anyone, from any background or gender—for jobs in the new recruitment halls and docking ports. They pay daily and never delay.”
“He’s gathered a lot of people, telling us what it really means to live.”
“Are they still hiring workers?”
Many were asking the same question. At this point, they didn’t even care whether Augustus’s men were rebels or not.
“They’re only recruiting soldiers now—what they call Revolutionary Fighters.”
The reply sounded uncertain.
“But his name is Augustus, right? Not ‘Gustav’.”
Someone doubted the speaker’s literacy. “Can you even spell the name correctly?”
“What are the requirements?”
The old man who had just condemned the rebels chimed in again. “I’m not that old.”
At present, the people of Deadman’s Rock had only a few ways to escape their homeland. Very few could pass the mercenary corps’ brutal screening tests—exams nearly as harsh as Spartan trials. Every round left people dead. Success demanded not just physical strength, but also expert weapon handling and sharp battlefield instincts.
By comparison, the enlistment requirements for the Revolutionary Army sounded much more forgiving.
And as for dying? For those who already felt their current lives were worse than death, that didn’t seem like much of a concern.
“Just need to be in good health and pass the recruit test. That’s it. It’s not hard at all. Tons of people are signing up—even the sheriff went!”
The young man who had brought it all up was visibly thrilled by the sudden attention.
“Where?”
“Northwest Block B-23, Unit 404.”
In a rush of muddy splashes, the crowd of workers suddenly scattered.
“…Wait, I think I forgot something,” the young man muttered. His voice no longer sounded so cheerful.
“What was it?”
Mira Han stepped up in front of him.
“Revolutionary consciousness… I still don’t understand what it really means. How do they even decide if someone has it?”
He hesitated, then looked up.
“Well then, I’m going to find out for myself,” Mira said, gazing at him.
“Hm? Why aren’t you going?”
“I’m scared… I don’t want to die,” he said, lowering his head in shame.
It was only then that he noticed Mira Han clearly for the first time—her hair dyed a bright pink, those playful and striking eyes barely hidden by long bangs. She was slim, wrapped in a long coat stitched from rough fabric that hung like a cloak, its hem reaching her calves and caked in mud.
“Well, then that’s your choice. Ha! No need to look so down!”
Mira slapped him hard on the shoulder—so hard it made him cough.
“Smile! Life’s not that terrible.”
She stuck out her tongue and made a goofy face.
