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SCL Chapter 126: Ports, Pirates, and Promises
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 22:42:16 +0000 UTC"Either way, the fleet is more than halfway crippled. The Iron Justice is no longer fit for the next campaign. We need to find a new port to repair and refit our ships," Augustus said, shaking his head while searching the starmap for the nearest resupply base.
The Norad II still operated on the old Federation star chart database, which meant that most of the green-labeled Federation ports were no longer accessible. Ironically, the ports and docks marked red—Kel-Morian and Umojan ones—were now far safer options.
But the real problem, Augustus realized, was that those ports were either too far away or within striking range of Terran Federation fleets.
"Returning to Korhal IV or Umojan space would take too long," he said, "and the first fleet bound for Korhal is likely already en route through hyperspace."
"In that case, it seems there's only one viable option." Augustus pulled up a particular star system and a gray-green planet on the starmap—its surface cloaked in murky haze, eerily reminiscent of Korhal IV.
He traced a triangle between the current location of the Norad II, this mysterious planet, and the Dylarian Shipyards. "It would take us less than half a day to reach Dead Man’s Rock, and from there, just four days at best to get to the Dylarian Shipyards. From what I know, the largest mercenary organization currently operates there—Hill and Harris Mercenaries."
Almost immediately after the Kel-Morian Combine signaled its intent to sign a peace treaty with the Terran Federation, many veteran mercenaries assumed the age of war was over and the mercenary market would collapse. Still, two men—Graven Hill and Remy Harris—officially founded their own mercenary company, recruiting seasoned fighters from Umojan territories, the Kel-Morian Combine, and even the Federation itself.
"The nearest Umojan dominion would take much longer to reach," Warfield said, "and the Kel-Morian might just stab us in the back the moment we show weakness."
Dead Man’s Rock—once a planet that, many years ago, hadn’t been quite so terrible—was now a galactic landfill. Nearly two-thirds of its surface was covered in space junk and industrial waste.
"Destroying a thriving ecosystem takes only a few years," Kerrigan said, searching her memory for details about the planet. "But restoring one... that could take generations."
“This planet lacks a strong governing body. Unchecked mineral extraction and rampant industrial pollution have devastated its already fragile environment. In recent years, all manner of people have flocked here—chasing dreams of overnight riches or seeking political asylum. Bit by bit, this place has become a haven for pirates, mercenaries, and smugglers.”
“And of course… rebels,” Tychus added. He instinctively tried to scratch his backside, but quickly gave up—power armor made that impossible.
“They’re Revolutionaries,” Kerrigan corrected him, flipping her fiery red ponytail with a touch of irritation.
“Same difference, sweetheart,” Tychus bellowed. “For freedom! Don’t tell me you actually fell for Mengsk’s charm? Seriously?”
“You’ll never understand Augustus’s grand ideals,” Kerrigan shot back. “All you ever think about is food, drink, gambling, and whoring.”
“No one understands Mengsk better than you do!” Tychus fired back with a mocking grin.
“That’s enough,” Augustus interjected, cutting them both off. “I’m neither as noble as you imagine… nor as vile as you accuse me of being.”
With that, he tapped a few commands into the main console, inputting an encrypted communications code. Within seconds, a man appeared on the screen—a young man still wearing sunglasses even at night, seated in a worn-down office with walls covered in weapons under flickering lights.
“Good evening, Mr. Mengsk,” said Graven Hill with a grin. “I assume you’re in the market for some new mercenary contracts. I heard Korhal IV is currently at war with the central government on Tarsonis.”
“I also heard you rushed to send people over when we put out a call for transport ships,” Augustus said flatly. “Charging triple the peacetime rate.”
“That brings us to the issue of war-driven inflation,” Hill replied smoothly. “The Terran Federation and Kel-Morian Combine have burned through their foreign exchange reserves in Umoja and racked up massive debt. Price hikes are only natural. I’m certainly not extorting anyone.”
“You’ll pay the price for that eventually,” Augustus said. “Word is, you’re doing business with Korhal IV, the Federation, and the Kel-Morians all at the same time. You once sold out the Kel-Morians for a single payday. Frankly, it’s hard to trust you.”
“That was different. The Kel-Morians owed us money. They broke contract—that’s a matter of principle. Mr. Angus Mengsk never shortchanged his mercenaries, not even once. I’d have to be insane to betray such a long-term and reliable client,” Hill said, his expression unreadable.
“As long as Korhal keeps fighting the Federation, we mercenaries will always have food on the table,” he said.
“All right, after all this small talk, I assume you’ve got a big job for me.” Hill lit a cigarette.
“I need to make use of your mercenary port for a while,” Augustus continued. “And for the next two months, I’ll sign as many contracts as you’ve got.”
“I heard things are about to get nasty on Korhal IV, but let me be clear—my mercenary brothers don’t walk into spider mines or take showers in nuclear firestorms. You understand? They don’t take suicide jobs,” Hill said, stroking his chin as he struggled to suppress a grin.
“Do I really look like some rich fool to you?” Augustus tapped his finger lightly on the bridge console table.
“All right, fine. But docking fees won’t be cheap. How many ships are we talking? I need a number to work with,” Hill asked.
“Not many,” Augustus replied, sending an encrypted data packet.
“No way. Three ships? Two of them are flagship-class? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hill folded his arms. “Our little dump of a port isn’t that big—but the orbital station can accommodate them.”
“By the way, where the hell did you get those beasts? I heard the Kel-Morians are selling warships, but the prices are insane.”
“Straight from the Federation fleet,” Augustus said bluntly. “So it’s settled, then.”
“Yeah, settled.” Hill had originally pegged Augustus as a talented but green Federation marine with a modest family background—but now realized he was dealing with someone far more audacious. A man bold enough to rob the Terran Federation fleet blind.
Deciding he needed to reassess the strength behind Augustus Mengsk, Hill terminated the communication link.
“He’s not trustworthy,” Tychus said.
“No,” Augustus agreed with a nod. “But once we reach Deadman’s Port, we’ll be the ones calling the shots.”
“Oh, you wicked bastard,” Tychus grinned darkly. “I like you.”
Just then, a secondary holographic screen flickered to life, displaying a radar scan.
“Unidentified warp signal detected. Incoming unsigned communication request,” reported the Norad II’s synthetic adjutant in a cold, mechanical tone.
“Patch it through,” Augustus ordered.
“Augustus Mengsk, we meet again. Give it five minutes—I’ll have you, you slippery Korhal fox. Did you really think you could get away? Alpha Squadron will chase you to the ends of the galaxy, to the very edge of the universe…” Duke’s voice thundered from the transmission.
Before he could finish, Augustus cut the comm link. Duke’s arrogant expression froze on the screen—distorted, caught in mid-rant.
“Sounds like Colonel Duke is almost on our tail,” Augustus said, pointing at Duke’s massive nostrils displayed on the main screen.
“He’s probably so mad right now he could eat his own boots,” Tychus burst out laughing.
“…He even gave us a countdown,” Warfield muttered in disbelief.
“What about Swann? How’s he doing?” Augustus asked, glancing at Kerrigan. Without needing further instruction, the sharp and perceptive Ghost agent had already handed him a personal terminal with an open channel.
“Oh—yes! That’s it, Thatcher! Little lady, just one more twist on that bolt!” a flurry of noisy voices came through the device.
“Well done!”
“Nice!”
“Rory Swann, I’d like to know whether you’ve taken care of those signal trackers yet. You said ten minutes ago that you were ‘just about over the hump.’ Now, as I understand it, that meant you were nearly finished,” Augustus said carefully—he had recently realized he didn’t always understand the locals' dialect from Meinhoff.
“Oh, hang on—let me grab that wrench. It’s still outside the airlock,” Swann replied, clearly distracted.
“Yeah, boss, these kids did great. Earning every credit of their pay.”
“Jump,” Augustus ordered, turning to the navigator while ignoring yet another incoming communication attempt from Duke. “Let’s leave our old friend screaming into the void for now.”
Aboard the battlecruiser Napoleon, on the bridge—
“Mengsk! The whole damn lot of them—big or small, brothers or cousins—they’re all just a bunch of uncultured hicks!” Duke roared, utterly lacking in decorum. His rage peaked just as the systems officer brought him the latest report.
“We can no longer update the location of the Norad II or the Iron Justice,” the tech sergeant said, clearly nervous.
“That fast?!” Duke snapped. “Impossible! There must be some mistake!”
“Colonel, Fleet Command is requesting an update on the situation in the Soryan system,” the colonel’s adjutant said, stepping onto the bridge.
“Tell them…” Duke instantly composed himself. “Tell them we destroyed over two thousand rebel ships and dealt a severe blow to Augustus Mengsk’s forces. I’ll submit a more detailed report shortly.”
