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SCL Chapter 120: Fire on the Iron Justice
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 20:36:55 +0000 UTCIron Justice, Docking Bay 3, Steel-Titanium Deck.
Warfield stood beneath the gangway of the Little Devil-class APOD transport, waiting for Augustus. Only a few Dominion officers in standard uniforms were present on the deck.
Roughly twenty angular, old-model Avenger fighters were parked on the deck—relics from the late Guild Wars that had been replaced by Wraith fighters and discontinued. Yet the engineers aboard the Iron Justice had kept them in pristine condition, polished to a near-new shine. On a farther docking platform stood rows of military transport ships—brand new models that could make Raynor drool.
Unlike the relatively empty hangars of the Hyperion, the Iron Justice was heavily equipped for aerial dominance, packed with fighters and transport craft capable of carrying multiple battalions—after all, boarding operations were the Marine Corps’ specialty.
“How long’s it been since we last met?” Augustus extended a hand.
“Last time was Meinhoff.”
Warfield grasped Augustus’s hand in a firm shake.
“At last, we stand together again—not as enemies, but as comrades.” Augustus spoke sincerely. “Just like back when I used to stand in front of you, we’ll fight shoulder to shoulder again.”
“Just like old times,” Warfield replied.
“You’ve got some interesting people under your command,” he added, eyeing the two standing behind Augustus—Tychus, towering and heavily built, and Sarah Kerrigan, a striking Ghost operative with fiery red hair and a pair of goggles pushed up onto her forehead. What surprised Warfield most was how young the woman looked. Despite her hardened aura, there were still hints of youthful softness in her face. Factoring in her training, she must have become a soldier at an even earlier age.
“When I arrived in Styrling City on Korhal IV, I had a long talk with your father,” Warfield said. “That’s when I learned that the news broadcast on UNN had actually been orchestrated by you.”
“To seize the UNN headquarters in Tarsonis City, right under the Dominion Parliament’s nose—I have to say, it was both daring and effective. Not only the 33rd Ground Assault Division, but many other units broke into chaos.”
“A few Revolutionary Army fighters were killed,” Augustus said. “Even more were captured or killed while covering their retreat. Umoja’s entire spy network in Tarsonis City was nearly wiped out. But it was worth it. They were heroes. Their families are proud of them.”
“And from what I’ve heard, the unrest within the military was quickly suppressed,” Augustus continued with a shake of his head. “Many officers and soldiers deemed to be spreading rumors or leading the mutinies were brought before military tribunals or thrown into prison. Only your unit managed to pull off a successful uprising.”
“Things are very different now from how they used to be,” Warfield said. “Spontaneous protests or idle grumbling are meaningless without a plan. Those people neither intended to rebel nor had the courage to do so.”
“After the war with the Kel-Morian Combine ended, at least 50% of Dominion troops were composed of resocialized soldiers—individuals programmed with unwavering loyalty to the Terran Dominion. Without detailed rosters or close scrutiny, you can’t tell whether the man standing next to you is one of them. In most barracks, the mutinies ended before they even began, because some young officer thought he could just order resocialized soldiers to turn on the government.”
“My solution was to round all of them up. Only those without neural reconditioning or memory implants are allowed to move freely.”
“What do you plan to do with them?” Augustus asked.
“My suggestion?” Tychus Findlay growled from behind Augustus. “Wipe them out. Better that than wait for those pansies to turn their guns on us.”
“No,” Warfield said firmly. “If the Dominion’s scientists can reprogram their memories, then so can we.”
“First we’d need access to resocialization tech,” Augustus added with a nod. “Or we’d have to take over one of their resocialization facilities. Until then, just keep their living standards at the bare minimum.”
“I gotta ask, Warfield—aren’t you gonna invite us in already?” Tychus broke in.
“Come on… let’s take the internal elevator,” Warfield said, leading Augustus and Tychus toward a vertical lift with several of his aides following close behind.
“How’s the evacuation of Korhal IV coming along?” Augustus asked. “The data I have shows more than 12 million people have already boarded ships to Umoja. Another 5 million have departed aboard fleets of Mammoth-class transports and colony ships, each heading in different directions. But unless I see it with my own eyes, I just can’t feel at ease.”
“After the initial chaos and despair,” he added, “the shared enemy helped unify more Korhalites than ever.”
“It was a sight to behold,” Warfield said with quiet awe. “When I arrived on Korhal IV, the high orbit was packed with ships. The warp trails left by departing colony fleets stretched light-years across the void. Every resource was reallocated and redistributed. Millions queued in order, boarding their vessels with only the personal items allowed.”
“So many people heading off to distant worlds… those traveling the farthest may never have the chance to return.” Augustus spoke softly, almost to himself, just as the Iron Justice’s internal elevator reached the upper superstructure and the doors slowly opened.
Warfield was about to respond when the deck beneath them suddenly shook with violent force. Augustus barely managed to stay upright by grabbing onto Tychus.
“Was that an earthquake?” Tychus muttered as he stepped out of the elevator, glancing around.
But Augustus and Warfield were already sprinting down the corridor toward the bridge, with Kerrigan close behind, her long C-10 rifle slung over her shoulder.
“You idiot! Someone’s firing on our ship!” Augustus shouted.
“I knew nothing good ever comes from you calling me!”
With the help of his powered armor, Tychus quickly caught up to Augustus and Warfield.
“Where do you want me to shoot? Are they above us or below? Damn it—this is why I hate being on ships. I get motion sick!”
“Just keep running forward!” Augustus barked as they sprinted into the bridge. Inside, Warfield’s deputy, Major Charles, was calmly coordinating the response.
On the main screen, red blips flashed—two battlecruisers had already jumped into the Soryan system, and more ships were warping in by the second.
“I am Colonel Edmund Duke, commanding officer of Alpha Squadron,” came a cold, proud voice—arguably the most smug and heartless tone Duke had ever used in his life.
“For theft of Dominion property, desertion, and high treason, I hereby place you under arrest. Drop your weapons and surrender immediately. If you cooperate, the intelligence agents questioning you might go easy with the knives.”
“You’ll never figure out how I found this place—because I can smell the stench of treason from halfway across the damn galaxy.”
“Remember the name of the man who captured you—I am Edmund Duke,” he declared.
“Traitors... go to hell.”
...
Outside the bridge viewport of the Iron Justice, two Behemoth-class battlecruisers loomed a few kilometers apart. The plating on their hammer-shaped prows gleamed with the light of the aging sun of the Soryan system, while their densely clustered turrets stood like a forest of blades.
Trailing behind the cruisers were orange-red plasma flames from their engines, remnants of superluminal jumps still lingering as spatial ripples and shimmering contrails. In the far reaches of deep space behind them floated a dark brown asteroid.
At the front of Alpha Squadron, the flagship Norad II led the way. When it and its sister ship Napoleon opened fire in unison, Augustus—standing on the bridge of the Iron Justice—could initially see only a barrage of dense flashes of light.
The tongues of laser cannon fire intertwined with the plasma trails of sky torpedoes and missiles, illuminating the pitch-black void. In the blink of an eye, thick orange-red laser beams, each several meters wide, reached from afar, carving scorched black grooves into the armor plating below the bridge. The most advanced, dense, and durable materials known to humanity vaporized instantly, like melting solid ice.
Each incoming strike sent subtle tremors through the ship. This steel fortress—vast as a city—was bathed in starlight and the glow of laser weapons, its hull erupting with dazzling bursts of fleeting flame.
Battlecruisers built before the Guild Wars lacked energy shield technology, meaning the Iron Justice could rely only on thick armor to withstand enemy fire.
“Reinforce Decks Six and Three. Begin emergency repairs on Secondary Engine Two. Notify the hangar—launch all Avenger and Banshee fighters from the bays. Tell the Marines: all leaves are canceled. Everyone to the lower decks. We’ve got a real fight on our hands.”
In the bridge, as alarm klaxons blared overhead, Major Charles 'Chuck' Horner calmly issued orders.
This stocky man from the frontier colonies was one of the few surviving members of Arcturus’s original imperial team. Though still gruff and abrasive, he had long since shed his youthful arrogance and grown into a dependable officer.
Flashes from both friendly turrets and enemy laser fire lit Augustus’s face intermittently. Yet even amid the chaos, he found time to straighten the collar of his coat, wrinkled from earlier running. Under the watchful eyes of Kerrigan and the others, his steely gray gaze remained fixed on the viewport, unwavering.
“Major Charles, we can’t establish a comms link with the Hyperion?” Augustus asked, still staring outside.
“The signal’s being jammed,” Charles replied. “Our techs are trying to reestablish the connection.”
For a split second, Charles had thought he saw his old commander—Arcturus Mengsk—standing before him. But that youthful face belonged to a time ten years gone.
It took Charles a few seconds to fully process it. Though this young man had the same cold gray eyes and silver hair, he was clearly someone else. The Mengsk family all seemed to be born with a natural air of command. In every era, they were pioneers, political leaders, or generals.
