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SCL Chapter 121: Death Will Be Our Beacon
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 23:33:28 +0000 UTC“Augustus, how’s your situation?” Raynor’s face appeared on the Iron Justice’s main screen. His concern visibly lifted upon seeing Augustus safe.
“Ran into a bit of trouble,” Augustus replied, even as Raynor could see the deck trembling under his feet.
“Jim, open a broadcast to the entire fleet.”
“All right. Opening full fleet channel—our Marshal has orders to give.” Raynor glanced to the side. “Swann, see if you can make this rusty tub go any faster.”
“This is Augustus Mengsk. I’m aboard the Iron Justice. All fleet units—rendezvous on my position!”
His voice rang out across the open fleet channel and was met with immediate response.
From the moment the Dominion fleet appeared, Jim Raynor’s Hyperion had already begun accelerating toward the Iron Justice. More than twenty escort ships, destroyers, and Umojan cruisers formed a spearhead formation beneath the Hyperion. Hundreds of small and mid-sized craft clustered around the capital ships, with the vanguard and rearguard vessels spanning more than three kilometers apart.
“Haha—gotta say, you’re starting to sound a little like your brother Arcturus,” Major Charles said with a smirk, clearly still in the mood to joke. “If he hadn’t been so hellbent on digging up crystals in the fringe worlds, he’d probably be the one standing here right now.”
“Dai and I couldn’t believe it back then, but no one could change his mind,” he added.
“Arcturus was always like that,” Augustus replied. “Sometimes even Mom couldn’t talk him down. Dorothy was the only one who could make him think twice.”
“What the hell’s going on here? I mean, come on, Warfield—any fool can see these bastards showed up right on your tail.”
At that moment, Tychus stood nearby with his Sweet Persuader heavy machine gun at the ready—but had no idea which direction to aim it.
“Duke probably started tailing you two weeks ago, just never launched the attack. And not only were you all unaware, you probably also gave away the staging point.”
“It looks now like Alpha Squadron was tracking us the whole time,” Warfield said grimly. “Their comms channels stayed dead silent. Maybe ours were being intercepted from the start.”
His face had gone stone cold. Warfield now realized this was a grave miscalculation on his part.
Although Edmund Duke had always presented himself as hotheaded, rash, and lacking strategic vision, he hadn’t made it this far on the name of the Duke family of Tarsonis—one of the Old Families—or on his trademark, foolhardy bravado alone.
While Warfield was still charging into battles on foot, Duke had already been leading fleets across the Koprulu sector. When it came to space warfare, Warfield—born and bred in the Marine Corps—was, at the end of the day, an amateur.
“Sounds like good ol’ Edmund’s been playing you like a fiddle,” Tychus said. Oddly enough, he seemed to be trying to offer comfort—though he couldn’t quite hide the excitement in his voice.
“I’ve been wanting to smash that wrinkled face of his for ages—finally get to do it fair and square. No court-martials, no prison time.”
“He thinks he’s already won,” Warfield said calmly. “But we’ve still got the Hyperion and the rest of our fleet. Right now, we’re evenly matched—two to two.”
Warfield wasn’t about to panic over this. He had survived far worse.
As if in direct response to Warfield’s words, three more battlecruisers of the same class suddenly appeared on the Iron Justice’s stellar map. Accompanying them were over two hundred escort ships and various other vessels. Instantly, the lieutenant colonel’s dark face seemed to turn a shade of green.
“This just got a lot messier,” Tychus muttered, lighting a cigar as usual. Exhaling smoke into his own helmet, he added, “Now it’s five to two. You say one more clever thing, and we might as well start writing our wills.”
“Mengsk, you got any bright ideas?” he said, turning toward Augustus. “Just standing here waiting to get our asses handed to us isn’t really my style.”
“Major Charles,” Augustus said, “can we close in on Alpha Squadron’s flagship—the Norad II—and attempt a docking maneuver?”
“To be perfectly honest, if they’re not cooperating, that’ll be damn near impossible,” Charles replied calmly. “It all depends on whether our pilot’s got the skills to carve through the enemy fleet with surgical precision—threading a 500-meter warship through concentrated enemy fire and lining it up alongside theirs for a portside approach.”
“Unless Duke intends for that to happen too.”
“Then tell me—can the Iron Justice’s pilot pull it off?” Augustus asked.
“Of course. We’ve got the best pilots in the entire Dominion,” Charles replied over the Iron Justice’s command channel. “Starboard fifteen degrees. Full speed ahead. Charge the main cannons. All batteries, target the Alpha Squadron flagship Norad II. All personnel, suit up in vacuum combat armor and strap in.”
“Brace for impact!”
“Impact?” Tychus looked toward the viewport, confused. By comparing their position relative to nearby ships and celestial bodies, he realized the Iron Justice was now speeding toward the Norad II at an alarming rate.
As the Iron Justice surged forward at full throttle, Avenger fighters streaked past beneath its hull, one after another, like arrows loosed from a bow. Their retreating blue-white contrails shimmered like vanishing starlight.
“Don’t tell me we’re actually playing space bumper cars.”
What surprised Tychus most was that Duke’s Norad II didn’t make any evasive maneuvers. Apparently, the battle-hardened fleet captain didn’t believe the Iron Justice could push through his fleet’s firepower and reach his bridge—or perhaps he welcomed a direct clash, bayonets and all.
“Arrogant bastard, that Duke.”
“I’ll take command of the assault teams—I'm going to defeat Edmund Duke personally, right on the Norad II’s deck.”
With those words, Warfield turned on his heel and walked off the bridge.
“He doesn’t know Duke’s fleet has been tailing him,” Kerrigan said softly after Warfield had left, stepping up beside Augustus. “I can feel his hatred for the Federation, but Warfield isn’t loyal to you—or your father. He’s simply lost all faith in the government.”
“You don’t need to doubt Warfield,” Augustus replied. “He’ll always be my friend.” Then he turned to Charles. “Major, the command is yours.”
“Well, either way, that’s my job,” Charles said, looking directly at Augustus. “Though I’ve always preferred charging in with a rifle.”
“I almost forgot what you used to do.”
“Well, with an old friend dropping by, we’d better give him a proper welcome,” Tychus added as he hefted his heavy machine gun and headed off.
“This is how the revolution rolls out the red carpet.”
From a minute ago, the tremors and lurches had become increasingly frequent. The Iron Justice—this massive warship clad in thick armor and bristling with heavy cannons—was now covered in black scorch marks. Melted deck plating had already begun to resolidify in the frigid vacuum of space.
Then, Section Six armor plating, located adjacent to the portside ground-targeting laser battery, was completely breached. The resulting explosion ignited the oxygen supply in the crew quarters. A brilliant, searing fire burst forth, and the crew members nearby—pulled into the vacuum—suffocated within seconds. Their bodily fluids boiled due to the drastically lowered pressure, and their corpses froze solid soon after.
By the time the engineers arrived and emergency repairs began, the flames had already died out due to the depleted oxygen supply. The air was now thick with the stench of burnt flesh and toxic gases, making it unbreathable.
The Iron Justice pressed forward under constant shuddering. Alarms blared through every corridor. Over the comms, Charles was continuously issuing orders—directing engineers to critical compartments and instructing crew members to evacuate to safer areas.
Above, Korhal’s revolutionary fighters flew at breakneck speeds, diving through a hailstorm of enemy fire to assault the Dominion fleet in what looked like suicide runs. Among them were modified civilian airships—no armor, outfitted only with small laser cannons—as well as Terran-standard Avenger and Banshee fighters.
The retrofitted civilian ships had no chance of survival if hit, but they made up for it in sheer numbers and speed. There were more than 2,000 of them.
Piloting these desperate craft were young men and women from Korhal IV—what some called 'the most hopeless generation'. Most came from families that didn’t abide by the single-child rule. Before ever setting foot on a warship, each of them had already dug their own graves on Korhal’s moon, Canis, and buried their farewell letters there.
And so, they came to be known by a name they shared as one: The Fireflies of Canis.
Neither courage nor unshakable will could protect these 'Sons of Korhal'.
As they closed in on the Norad II, they were shot down in droves, each one bursting into brilliant flares of light before vanishing.
The pilots aboard those fighters either vaporized instantly with their craft in the sweep of laser fire—or died in excruciating pain, consumed by flames before the oxygen could burn out, in suffering so intense even the strongest would have screamed.
They had been told their deaths would bring about the rebirth of Korhal IV. And so, they charged forward willingly to die.
Meanwhile, the Umojan Banshee Fighters—on the edge of military design—drew even more attention from the Dominion fleet with their distinctive inward-curving wings and plasma thrusters. Faster and more agile, these craft relied entirely on pilot reflexes, top-tier optical sensors, and advanced AI-assisted maneuvering to weave through dense enemy fire.
In the development and manufacturing of small and unmanned carrier-based craft, Umoja had clearly surpassed the Terran Dominion.
