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SCL Chapter 125: The Price of Command
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 00:30:46 +0000 UTCWhile awaiting Swann’s shuttle to arrive at the Norad II, Warfield stepped forward, carrying a tattered Alpha Squadron banner.
It was a crimson flag, bordered with gold embroidery, and in its center—within a triangular pattern—was the outstretched eagle that symbolized the Alpha Squadron, a hallmark emblem of the Terran faction in StarCraft.
Now, the flag lay in tatters, and the Alpha Squadron soldiers once stationed aboard the Norad II had undoubtedly met the same fate.
“This ship now truly belongs to you,” Warfield said to Augustus.
“My men are still sweeping through the Norad II, eliminating the remnants of the Alpha Squadron. There are still quite a few scattered across different compartments, passageways, even airlocks—but they no longer pose a threat.”
During the Norad II’s faster-than-light journey through hyperspace, Warfield had led his troops through over three hours of brutal combat. Exhausted in both body and mind, they nonetheless had every reason to take pride in their hard-won victory.
“I never doubted you would succeed, Warfield,” Augustus said.
“If I had failed, it would mean I died trying,” Warfield replied with a faint smile.
“As long as you don’t want to die,” Augustus said resolutely, “no one can take your life from you.”
“Heh… But Duke is still on our tail. Any idea why?” Warfield asked.
“I suspect the problem lies in the handover of the Iron Justice. Either your team didn’t conduct a thorough enough inspection when you took the ship, or someone got careless—and failed to detect internal tracking and positioning devices. Then again… maybe the person in charge of that task is the one we should be questioning.”
“Boss, I heard you’ve run into a bit of trouble.”
Swann walked over with a heavy toolbox in hand, followed by more than a dozen engineers—many of whom were his own burly-looking relatives.
“I don’t know exactly what happened. Space battles are pure chaos. All we could do was patch things up nonstop—and wait. That kind of waiting is terrifying.”
“I watched the fighters launch from the Hyperion’s hangar with my own eyes. None of them came back before the warp. Some of those kids were just eighteen… only a little younger than you.”
Swann wiped at his eyes but didn’t continue.
“Uh, anyway… let’s not dwell on that. I mean, when can we get to work?”
Augustus remained silent for a moment, not responding immediately.
“I want you to find every single tracking device hidden aboard the Norad II. They may come in different forms—but if even one is missed, Duke will find us after our next warp and finish us for good.”
“Start now, Swann. Don’t waste a second. Your job is saving lives.”
“I think I get what you mean,” Swann said. “It took the engineers from Umoja just as long to strip out the hidden trackers from the Hyperion as it did to repair the ship itself. Those little bastards could be disguised as anything—from a button-cell battery to a record player... or even the toilet seat under your ass.”
“Luckily, I’ve got a few Umoja engineers on my team who worked on the Hyperion. I was told that while the Federation uses a lot of these devices to monitor their own ships, the placement of the trackers across battlecruisers tends to be pretty consistent.”
“Maybe the guy who designed the tracking system wasn’t very imaginative—or maybe they just didn’t care enough to vary the placement. After all, tracking devices probably weren’t high on the priority checklist.”
“Anyway, I’ve thought it through. This won’t be too hard. I’ll dispatch another group of engineers to the Iron Justice as well. Hmm… no need for too many. Thirteen or fourteen people should do it.”
...
June 9th, 07:54 shipboard time — approximately three standard hours had passed since the Korhal Revolutionary Fleet had warped into this sector.
The Norad II, a mighty steel behemoth, was once the flagship of the Terran Federation's elite Alpha Squadron, personally commanded by Colonel Edmund Duke.
Everywhere aboard this colossal Behemoth-class battlecruiser bore traces of Alpha Squadron and Colonel Duke himself. A man whose brutish temperament and appearance closely resembled that of a silverback gorilla, Duke had hung over twenty different Alpha Squadron banners across the bridge of the Norad II. Symbols and medals commemorating over a hundred battles were painted directly onto the ship’s walls and portholes.
Compared to the Hyperion, the Norad II, as Alpha Squadron’s flagship, was even more massive. Aside from its still painfully cramped corridors, the bridge, chambers, and recreational areas exuded a sense of grandeur—bordering on the palatial.
But now, this battleship had a new master: Augustus Mengsk. He was content to refer to this change of hands as a mere shift in 'ownership'.
From any perspective, the Norad II was an unparalleled masterpiece of war—bristling with rows upon rows of laser cannon batteries and reinforced with upgraded energy shield arrays. Its hangars held nearly a hundred newly manufactured Wraith fighters.
These state-of-the-art fighters left older models like the Avenger and Hellhound jets far behind in both maneuverability and firepower, and were far better suited for space combat.
More importantly, the Norad II's nuclear arsenal still held twenty tactical nuclear warheads—each equivalent to 100 kilotonnes of TNT—and two Apocalypse-class warheads capable of leveling half the city of Tarsonis.
—And all it took to unleash these charming yet temperamental little beasts… was the press of a deceptively harmless red button.
Even so, Augustus felt no joy.
To him, the gains paled in comparison to the losses. Accurate tallies confirmed that the Korhal Revolutionary Army had suffered a devastating blow in the Soryan system skirmish. Only four Goliath-class frigates, two Reagan-class cruisers, and five destroyers remained. Of the aerial fleet, a mere 597 combat airships survived.
Nearly 5,000 revolutionary pilots and fleet soldiers had perished in this battle—most of whom had received barely six months of training, some even less. These were largely green recruits, lives just beginning to blossom like spring flowers—and now, never again would they return to Korhal IV, their homeland.
After the casualty and fleet loss reports were concluded, Augustus was informed by his Umojan fleet advisor that among the dead were several graduates of Styrling Academy—the alma mater of generations of the Mengsk family. Some of the fallen had even been his classmates during his school years.
Death was no stranger to Augustus. On Turaxis II, the loss of Omer and Benjamin had struck a heavy blow to everyone in Augustus's class. Though he still refused to fully acknowledge it in his heart, the truth remained: warriors like Omer were dying constantly—dying for Korhal.
Their deaths were devastating for their families—sometimes enough to shatter fragile households. But on the report sheet, they were reduced to nothing more than a string of names and numbers.
Augustus had asked for a detailed list of those names. He said nothing in response.
“I want to know what kind of losses we dealt to Alpha Squadron,” Augustus asked his emotionless Umojan advisor on the Norad II’s bridge.
“The logistics sergeants managed to tally some confirmed kills,” the advisor replied. “In the engagement now designated as the Soryan system battle, we shot down 126 Avenger-class fighters, 38 Wraith-class fighters, and destroyed three Sphentaux-class Federation destroyers—those long, rectangular warships.”
There was no precise way to measure Alpha Squadron’s total losses, but it was beyond doubt that their equipment and personnel still vastly outmatched the Revolutionary Army’s. Had Augustus not managed to wrest control of their flagship, the Norad II, as if plucking a tooth from a lion’s mouth, the operation would have ended in total and undeniable disaster.
The Korhal Revolutionary Army was far too lacking in resources—this loss had struck deep, to the bone.
“And the price we paid was ten times theirs.” Augustus’s tone was no different from usual, but Kerrigan, standing nearby, could feel the sorrow and sense of defeat within him—even without the use of her telepathy.
Augustus Mengsk was not invincible. A seasoned commander could prove his brilliance with countless brilliant campaigns, but a single bitter, humiliating defeat was enough to erase all that glory.
“You can’t blame yourself for their deaths. I heard the cries of those who died—their final thoughts,” Kerrigan said softly. “They accepted death. Willingly.”
“I should have done better,” Augustus said, after the Umoja advisor had left.
“Mengsk,” said Tychus, “given the situation, I couldn’t have thought of a better course of action. If Duke had brought twice the ships, I’d have told you to surrender on the spot.”
“So what were your options? Slam headlong into them in a desperate charge? Or retreat in disgrace, leaving behind a trail of wreckage and watching as the fleet’s morale collapsed for nothing?”
"You have to face them. Next time, everyone will know their commander isn’t afraid to take the offensive," Warfield told Augustus. "Just like Arcturus once said: if you’re leading a hundred men, you can afford to remember each of their names, their pasts and presents. But if you’re leading a hundred thousand—then you must learn the cruelty of indifference."
"Can you really do that?" Augustus asked him.
"I can’t," Warfield replied. "I never could. And neither could Arcturus."
