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SCL Chapter 123: Wrong Ship, Right War
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 00:31:51 +0000 UTC“We can’t afford to be stalled here for long,” Warfield said. “Cut off the head and the body dies. Only by capturing Duke can we force this Federal fleet to withdraw.”
“Tychus!” Augustus called out.
“Bullshit! They've got at least ten heavy guns and autocannons up ahead. If you want me dead, just say so,” Tychus snapped.
“Kerrigan,” Augustus said after a brief pause, “take out their commanding officer. Leave the highest-ranking one alive.”
“You can hear their thoughts. Even without insignia, you’ll know who’s in charge. And once you do—you’ll know how to control the rest.”
From her invisible perch, Ghost operative Sarah Kerrigan responded with a single, lethal shot.
The moment the shot rang out, an Alpha Squad officer collapsed, the matte-black faceplate of his helmet bursting in a spray of gore. The 25 mm canister round not only pierced his helmet but pulped his head into a mess of blood and bone.
But the sniper shot didn’t raise any alarms among the other officers. None of them detected the cloaked Ghost operative—they simply assumed the lieutenant had been hit by a stray round.
After a brief pause to regroup, Warfield launched another assault. Kerrigan used the opportunity to pick off the exposed officers one by one. Alpha Squad’s formation quickly fell into disarray.
Even so, the resocialized soldiers continued executing their orders to fire. When their commanders gave them a single directive, these neurologically reconditioned troops could carry it out with robotic precision.
The only catch was—they couldn’t adapt to changing circumstances. For instance, when Kerrigan used her psionic powers to seize control of the last remaining senior Alpha Squad officer, she had him issue a command ordering the soldiers to lay down their weapons.
Some of the resocialized soldiers complied immediately. Others froze, confused by the contradiction between this new command and their previous orders. But as a wave of enraged Marines charged toward them, that moment of hesitation was enough to shatter their defenses.
When Augustus shot one of the resocialized soldiers dead, Tychus had already seized one of Alpha Squad’s heavy autocannons and opened fire on the retreating enemy. Muzzle flashes blazed, and screams of agony echoed through the corridor. Blood sprayed like waves crashing against the deck of a ship—fierce and unrelenting.
Once the enemy had been cleared, the arriving demolition team blasted open the bridge doors. Augustus and Warfield led several dozen Marines inside.
“Hands where I can see them, Duke,” Augustus barked, Gauss rifle raised.
But aside from a few navigators and engineers, the bridge was empty. Just as Augustus had suspected—Duke had either fled or hadn’t been aboard his flagship in the first place.
“Duke, you coward!” Warfield growled, finding no trace of the man.
“Edmund, he’s gone,” Tychus said, stepping in front of a nervous Alpha Squad navigator whose fingers trembled uncontrollably.
“Where the hell did that bastard Edmund run off to?” Tychus growled, pressing the barrel of his weapon to the man’s forehead.
“Just tell me where he is,” he continued, lowering the faceplate of his powered armor to reveal a menacing snarl. “Give me one damn sound if you understand.”
“Colonel Duke… he’s not here,” the navigator stammered. He was a young blond man, used to reading radar displays—but utterly unprepared for this kind of confrontation.
“Then where the hell is he? You think my bullets are merciful?” Tychus pulled the trigger—only to realize the gun was out of ammo. With a grunt, he decided to be merciful after all.
“He’s on the Napoleon,” the navigator hurriedly added.
“Looks like we hijacked the wrong ship,” Tychus said, clapping the navigator’s shoulder so hard it made the poor kid gasp for breath. “Kid, you’re one of us now. Steer this ship properly—unless you want one of my bullets to go rogue.”
At that moment, the hull of the Norad II began to tremble. But Augustus had already issued strict orders forbidding any fleet vessel from attacking the Norad II during the boarding operation. Given that, the source of the current attack was all too obvious.
“Establish a comm link with the Napoleon, now,” Augustus ordered the bewildered navigator.
“Yes, sir.” After a brief but intense mental struggle, the navigator wisely chose survival over loyalty.
The transmission connected immediately. On the screen appeared a Federal officer with a rhomboid-shaped head, clad in bulky powered armor. Golden epaulettes hung from the extra-wide pauldrons on his shoulders.
“You’ve lost, Mengsk,” said Edmund Duke.
“You plan to destroy everyone aboard the Norad II—thousands of Alpha Squad soldiers, and us included?” Augustus stared calmly at the screen.
“They wouldn’t survive either way,” Duke shook his head. “Don’t forget who got them killed in the first place.”
“You think the Norad II’s shields weren’t activated just to save energy? I know exactly what your intentions are. Honestly, I didn’t believe you’d win at first,” he said. “To me, it looked like suicide.”
“As long as I get to eliminate you—Angus Mengsk’s son, the former leader of Heaven’s Devils—I’m happy to trade away a flagship and an entire crew. You get that, Mengsk? You’re worth the price.”
“We once fought side by side. And for the rest of my life, every time I see that damn Medal of Valor I earned because of you, I’ll remember those blood-soaked days,” Duke continued.
“You’ll get another chance to see me,” Augustus muttered, cutting the comm with a wave of his hand. He then personally initiated transmission requests to the Iron Justice and the Hyperion.
While waiting for a reply, Warfield asked, “Sounds like Duke really intends to take us down with the Norad II?”
“He’s bluffing,” Augustus replied. “We’ve got plenty of time to make a forced warp jump before his fleet destroys the ship.”
Augustus pulled up a chart on the main display showing the shield energy levels of the battlecruiser. “Just like Duke said—the Norad II’s shields are nearly fully charged. That’s more than enough to endure enemy fire during a jump.”
A few seconds later, feed from the other two battlecruisers came online. The Iron Justice had sustained noticeable damage, while the Hyperion, piloted by Raynor and busy skirmishing with the Federal fleet, appeared largely intact.
“You actually took the Norad II?” Raynor asked. “Augustus, my man, that sounds badass. Kinda wish I’d been there fighting beside you.”
“Where’s that bastard Duke?” asked Charles.
“He’s not on this ship,” Augustus said with a shake of the head. “He’s a bit more cunning than he lets on.”
“Now, all ships—disengage from combat. Raise shields. Prepare for spatial warp to coordinates 418, 4.”
...
“This is the Iron Justice. We are en route to the designated jump point,” Major Charles’s holographic image appeared on an idle projection screen.
Through the Norad II’s armor sensors and the footage transmitted from the Iron Justice, Augustus could see the full silhouette of the battered warship.
Its brown-black plating was riddled with scorch marks, molten streaks, and gashes. Some of the most jarring damage cut deep into the deck layers, and fragments of steel and alloy peeled away from the vessel like dandelion seeds blown off by the wind.
These drifting fragments, now powerless in deep space, would eventually become prime targets for interstellar scavengers. Even a single armor plate from a battlecruiser—say, one torn from beneath a laser cannon mount—could fetch a decent price. Meanwhile, debris still traveling at high initial velocities was being drawn in by the gravity of asteroids, comets, or even stars within and beyond the Soryan System.
At this moment, the Norad II and the Iron Justice, sailing in parallel, were less than half a mile from the Terran Federation fleet, led by the Napoleon. Hundreds of ship-mounted laser batteries and railguns unleashed continuous fire onto each other’s shield arrays and armor. Orange-red beams pulsed against the deep green energy shields, sending ripples through their glowing surfaces.
The barrage from the ship cannons was relentless. Each brilliant fireball marked the destruction of a warship, and the twisted fragments of alloy scattered across space like falling stars in a galactic cascade.
The Iron Justice’s onboard fighters were retreating at full speed back to the mothership. Their numbers had dwindled to less than a tenth of their original launch count. Navigating through the dense crisscross of cannon fire between both fleets’ battlecruisers, they dodged enemy Wraith fighter lasers and Gemini-class space-to-air missiles with daring, desperate maneuvers.
The Korhal Revolutionary Fleet had already lost nine frigates, four destroyers, and two Umojan Ligan-class cruisers. Of the roughly 300 medium-sized assault vessels, fewer than a third remained. From the over 2,000 single-pilot craft—fighters, patrol boats, and strike ships—only about 600 were left, including those damaged.
This meant that in just 40 minutes of engagement, between 4,000 and 6,000 Revolutionary soldiers had been killed, with many more injured.
