TitoVillar
patreon
SCL Chapter 114: Voices in the Hall of Reason
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 20:47:52 +0000 UTCOn May 7, a force from Korhal arrived to reinforce Augustus's fleet—six Titan-class escort frigates accompanied by more than two hundred transport vessels and airships.
By May 10, the long-awaited Umojan support fleet finally arrived. At 10:32 shipboard time, Augustus, alongside an overjoyed Raynor and others, boarded a shuttle and landed on the much larger flight deck of the Hyperion.
There, soldiers of the Umojan Volunteer Fleet, dressed in pristine white uniforms, gave them a warm welcome. They offered up several bouquets of rare flowers, and every non-commissioned officer, junior officer, and senior officer present declared their absolute loyalty to Augustus during Korhal’s war for independence.
To Augustus’s great relief, the Umojan Parliament had not dispatched a general of their own to compete with him for command. That would’ve been a nightmare.
Even better—though the Hyperion looked ragged from rushed repairs—it could at least still fly.
Roughly 70% of the ship’s systems and compartments, excluding the engines, life support, and gravity controls, were still inoperable. Even the laser batteries were only half-functional, with just one side able to fire—the other weapons systems hadn’t yet been restored by the Umojan engineers.
Surrounded by Umojan officers and flanked by Raynor and his team, Augustus was treated like the head of state as he toured the interior of the Hyperion. Though the battlecruiser’s corridors weren’t exactly spacious, they were at least wide enough for two Marines to walk side by side.
Every hallway had been designed with maximum space efficiency in mind—more compartments meant more room for weapons, living quarters, and critical computing systems.
Directional arrows, safety notices, and warning signs were painted in white along the floors and walls. Each deck was remarkably empty and clean, and the echoing hangars made it painfully obvious: the ship lacked its essential complement of strike craft.
“Feel familiar walking through here?” Augustus asked Jim Raynor beside him.
Raynor gave a half-smile. “Well… it looks like I was born to command this ship. But let’s be honest—I probably couldn’t afford a single tail light on the Hyperion.”
“Guess I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo,” Tychus muttered, puffing on a cigarette. “Anyone who can afford a ship like this? I usually just call ’em my long-lost brother.”
“With this ship, we’re one step closer to defeating the rotten Dominion—and saving more lives!” Kerrigan declared, clenching her fist.
“Oh, I hate to break it to you,” Tychus said, glancing her way. “But that’s not how it works. The only way to live easy is to stay far from trouble—and not care who dies in your place.”
“Hey, boss—must’ve hit the jackpot, huh?”
At that moment, Rory Swann, Augustus’s chief engineer, approached from the corridor.
“Tweaking this beast to your specs won’t come cheap,” he said plainly.
“You actually got the funds this time?”
As long as Augustus’s forces had to keep flying into battle aboard the Hyperion, they’d be constantly patching up this Behemoth-class battlecruiser, which looked like it could fall apart at any moment.
During the Confederacy Wars, Behemoth-class battlecruisers had been undisputed flagships. But as the conflict dragged on, new designs and upgraded weapons systems emerged—refining every new hull that came off the line. The aging Hyperion, once a symbol of might, was slowly falling behind the times.
…
Tarsonis City, May 16, 2489
Constantino Terra—Patriarch of the Terra family, one of Tarsonis’s Old Families; autocratic ruler of the monopolistic Terra Group; owner of Terra City, the seventh-largest metropolis on the planet; and father of Nova Terra—was now stepping into the grand domed chamber known in this era as the Hall of Reason, clad in his intricately ornate formal wear and a gold-and-crimson cloak.
This magnificent structure, with its white marble columns and large square panes of bronze-tinted glass, was the pride of Tarsonis City. Its Roman-temple-like dome, arches, and niches exuded a sense of dimensional beauty. From every angle, its sides curved inward, forming a subtly gradated arc surface—symbolizing the boundless universe and the infinite expansion of human thought.
And while the Confederate Council Headquarters stood as a symbol of greatness and glory for the city, many overlooked the fact that beneath its foundations lay the largest slum in the entire Terran Federation.
Following the Guild Wars, the Federation’s hegemonic dominance extended across the Koprulu Sector. Corporate monopolies grew ever more bloated, yet the populace remained cold and starving. Technology had dramatically extended the lifespans of the ruling elite, while life expectancy in the harsh frontier worlds stubbornly remained below 45 years.
Seated inside the Hall of Reason were others dressed in attire similar to Constantino’s—senators of the Tarsonis Council, heads of Old Families, and security enforcers of the Assembly.
After greeting the other family leaders he was familiar with, Constantino began chatting with Errol Bennett, Patriarch of the Bennett family. At first, their conversation was limited to trivialities: business woes, land acquisition policies, and so on.
But when Ava Holt, matriarch of the Holt family, approached, the topic turned serious.
“We all know exactly why Andrea Tygore pushed her heirs and those spineless fence-sitters in the Assembly to convene this meeting,” Ava Holt said. She was a poised woman with straight black hair that fell to her shoulders, its ends laser-cut at a sharp forty-five-degree angle. As she spoke, a teardrop-shaped pendant of dusky gold swayed lightly from her neck.
“Andrea has only one goal—to deal with Korhal IV and its allied worlds thoroughly and once and for all. She wants it done cleanly, without regard for the means, no matter the cost. Ideally, she wants her servants to read her a report at breakfast the next morning that says the problem has been permanently resolved.”
“That’s just how Andrea operates,” Bennett said, his voice perfectly calm, devoid of emotion. “Over a hundred years ago, she eliminated every rival in her family the same way, and then ruled the Tygore family and Tarsonis with an iron fist.”
“The assassination attempt on Angus failed,” he added, seemingly privy to further inside information. “Even the so-called Ghost agents—those supposed flawless human psionics—failed. The Ghost Program won’t get another cent out of me.”
“I’ve seen those psionics. They can supposedly move objects with their minds, even force others to strangle themselves with their own hands. But now I’m starting to think all of that was fake, nothing but a scam to bleed me dry.”
“The failed assassination is precisely what pushed Andrea to urgently convene this meeting.”
“My people picked up some intel,” said Constantino Terra, his brow furrowed. “Andrea plans to resort to force, not diplomacy, to resolve this conflict.”
“After declaring Korhal’s independence, Angus Mengsk sent envoys proposing negotiations with the Tarsonis Council. He stated that as long as Tarsonis would acknowledge Korhal’s autonomous status and grant it the right to draft its own constitution and handle its own diplomacy, Korhal would remain within the Federation.”
“Same old routine,” Errol Bennett snorted. “Andrea must have gone mad. I heard she ordered that ambassador’s eyes gouged out, and had his ears and nose cut off.”
“Korhal IV is finished. Angus is insane—that much is obvious. But the real issue is that tens of millions have gone insane along with him.”
“And then there’s Angus’s son, Augustus. A mere Marine second lieutenant now styling himself as a marshal. A brat who doesn’t know his place! When he was on Tarsonis, he even tried to get a meeting with me. As if I didn’t know what kind of tricks he was trying to pull,” he scoffed arrogantly.
“I had someone throw him out immediately! A madman’s son is surely just as mad. No matter how lavishly he dresses, in my eyes he’s still nothing more than a street vagrant.”
“But I think Augustus Mengsk is quite an exceptional young man,” Ava Holt said. “He’s handsome, refined, and well-versed in both the arts and literature. In fact, I’d say he looks just like a young Frederick the Great from Earth’s history.”
“Augustus did leave an impression on me,” Constantino added. Recalling his eldest daughter’s unusual infatuation with Augustus, a flicker of irritation welled up in his chest, making it hard to find a kind word to say.
“Nothing special.”
“Just wait. That Mengsk boy will meet the same fate as his father. The Korhal situation isn’t something that can be resolved with just a few deaths. The Council will definitely deploy the military. Those mobs will get what’s coming to them sooner or later,” Errol said, unwilling to waste time arguing—it served him no benefit to win this debate.
“And then the nouveau riche of Korhal IV, along with the mud-stained peasants of the outer worlds, will finally learn the cost of rebellion. They must be out of their minds. The losses I’ve suffered from Korhal’s uprising are enough to make me jump off the top of Sky Tower.”
“Work hard. Pay your taxes on time. Fulfill your duties. Be loyal to the Federation that raised them—is that really so difficult? People are always yearning for things that were never meant to be theirs. Our ancestors established the system over two hundred years ago, clearly defining each person’s rights and responsibilities.”
“There must be no compromise with Korhal. The moment you give those mobs an inch, they’ll demand a mile. If greedy people are never satisfied and constantly want more, peace will forever be out of reach. Only by upholding this system can the Terran Federation enjoy lasting stability.”
“It’s an era of rapid change, Mr. Bennett,” Ava Holt interjected. “Perhaps it’s time we consider some adjustments—some concessions. After all, this era is vastly different from two hundred years ago.”
“I’m not opposed to certain concessions,” Constantino nodded. “We’re fully capable of improving civilian life. If I can build more factories and create more jobs, doesn’t that mean more people get to survive?”
“I’ve spent more on charity than any celebrity,” Bennett replied coldly. “And what about the Holt and Terra families?”
“Think carefully—our power comes entirely from this ancient system,” Bennett added sternly.
Constantino no longer felt like arguing. Compared to other Old Family conglomerates, the Terra Group offered the best wages, benefits, and leave policies. He personally preferred hiring impoverished citizens and providing housing and recreation facilities for employees.
In truth, Constantino didn’t like Angus or his revolutionary party one bit. He wasn’t fond of politics either—he far preferred remaining neutral.
As for Ava Holt, she clearly wanted to speak up more for the civilians and for Korhal, but deep down, she knew she would never convince someone as obstinate as Bennett.
The Bennett family’s reputation wasn’t exactly pristine. Among trashy tabloids and gossiping housewives, rumors of sleazy dealings and scandals among the Old Families often circulated.
Lately, the disappearance of Errol Bennett’s eldest son, Ark, had sparked public suspicion. Some claimed his sister Tara had murdered him to claim the family fortune. Others said bandits kidnapped Ark Bennett for ransom, and that the miserly Errol simply refused to pay a cent to save his own son.
