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SCL Chapter 51: Where Heroes Are Forgotten
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 23:39:58 +0000 UTCJuly 27th, 06:30
At exactly 06:30, Augustus’s Third Squad assembled on the military camp’s training ground. After a meticulous inspection by their new platoon leader—ensuring each Marine’s uniform was clean, orderly, and met hygiene and military standards—the 44 soldiers, dressed in their winter uniforms, boarded two buses bound for the Fortress Opera House.
“I didn’t know there was a children’s play at the opera house today,” Tychus said from across Augustus. “Mengsk, the only thing I want to do is kick those ridiculous actors right in the ass for wasting my precious time.”
“I actually fell asleep last time,” Harnack said sheepishly. “Can’t blame me—I thought it was going to be one of those sexy morale-boosting shows.”
“I thought the galactic opera chronicling the hero Andar was excellent!” Lundstein chimed in, though no one agreed with him.
“From what I’ve heard, it’s actually supposed to be a speech,” Augustus said.
“Good thing I brought my pillow and blanket,” Josephine added, drawing a round of laughter.
“Alright, tonight I’ll take you all for a round at the pub in Howe Town,” Augustus said, glancing over at them.
“Hell yeah!” Harnack shouted.
“Now that wakes me up.”
When the buses pulled up to the rather cramped entrance of the Fortress Opera House, the members of the Third Squad disembarked and lined up neatly at the door—Augustus demanded discipline and order at all times.
A sergeant was waiting at the entrance, holding a stack of document folders. She had short, curly brown hair, striking blue eyes, and rosy lips. Her snug military uniform accentuated a graceful, well-proportioned figure.
“Sergeant Mengsk,” she said, striding over to Augustus with the folders. “You can have your men go in.”
“Has Major Warfield arrived yet?” Augustus asked as he motioned for his squad to enter the opera house.
“He said he’ll be here shortly,” the sergeant replied.
“Do you know who’s giving the speech? Or what it’s about?” Augustus looked her in the eye.
“No idea. But more importantly, Sergeant, would you mind if I added your personal terminal address to my contacts?” She was much shorter than Augustus, and as he looked down at her, their eyes inevitably met—those dazzling blue eyes.
“Of course not,” Augustus replied.
Today, he was dressed in a neatly belted, high-collared uniform. His newly earned anchor insignia gleamed at the center of his broad-brimmed officer’s cap. The military aura suited him, and it gave his already-handsome features an added charm—making it all the easier to attract attention from the opposite sex.
“Well then…” The female sergeant suddenly turned bashful, biting her rosy lip.
“Mengsk, the speech is about to begin,” came a firm voice, followed by a hand clapping Augustus on the shoulder.
He turned to see none other than Warfield. Offering an apologetic smile, Augustus fell into step beside him, heading into the opera house.
“Did I interrupt something?” Warfield asked quietly.
“Not at all,” Augustus replied.
“You’re always such a crowd favorite,” Warfield said with a smirk.
“True enough,” Augustus admitted.
The opera house at Fort Howe wasn’t very large—its maximum capacity capped at 300. The walls were lined with perforated soundproofing material, and a semicircular auditorium rose step by step from a golden-curtained stage. It wasn’t always used for performances; most of the time, it sat idle.
Augustus and Warfield took seats in the front row.
“So, who’s the speaker? Some fame-chasing politician, a UNN editor, or an arms dealer’s mouthpiece?” Augustus asked.
“It’s a transport ship captain who was once captured by the Kel-Morian,” Warfield replied, never one to keep secrets. “She’s here to tell us about the prison where she was held.”
“Oh great. So what’s the point for us? Is she going to tell us it’s better to die in battle than to be captured?” Augustus asked.
"This is actually related to an upcoming rescue operation. Our company’s next mission is to assault the Kel-Morian prison where that captain was once held and rescue the other Federation prisoners still inside," Warfield said.
"I was hoping we’d get a bit more downtime," Augustus replied, clearly unenthusiastic about another dangerous mission.
"Once this war is over, we’ll get all the rest we want," Warfield answered.
"But war never ends," Augustus said.
At that moment, a figure in a long coat stepped onto the stage, supported by a nurse. Augustus could barely tell the speaker was a woman.
She was far too thin. Even beneath the coat, her ribcage protruded starkly—so gaunt she looked more like a skeleton draped in fabric than a living person.
"My name is Claire Hobbes. I was once the captain of a Federation transport ship," she said, her voice hoarse. "After our ship was destroyed by the Kel-Morian, my crew and I were taken to Containment Facility No. 34. I won’t detail the torture we endured there—because you can already see for yourselves what they do to someone with a healthy mind and body."
"I’m only twenty-seven years old, but I lie in bed like someone on the verge of death."
The audience was silent. Behind Augustus, the soldiers of First Squad were listening intently.
"There are at least four hundred Federation soldiers and starship pilots still imprisoned in Facility No. 34. Among them are war heroes and ace pilots whose craft were shot down over enemy territory. They are being brutally mistreated. And our mission is to rescue them."
"This is a satellite-generated schematic of the facility—a 3D model compiled from tens of thousands of photographs stitched together by computer."
A holographic projection appeared before Augustus and the others, showing varied terrain crisscrossed by rivers. Facility No. 34 sat nestled between three hills arranged in a triangle. The hilltops were heavily fortified, lined with machine guns, automated turrets, and ground-based artillery.
Six rectangular white barracks were hidden among the hills. The rest of the compound included a command center with a satellite communications base, a water tower, and spherical bunkers stationed between the hills.
"This is the operation plan," Hobbes said, her hands sweeping through the holographic interface to enlarge the structures in midair. "Our air force will first neutralize the bunkers on those three hills. Then, your units will launch a frontal assault."
"I cannot agree with this plan."
Augustus, seated in the front row, spoke clearly—loud enough for Hobbes to hear him from the stage.
"If we’re attacking head-on, we’ll need at least eight tanks or a full artillery platoon for fire support. If the air force can’t guarantee they’ll eliminate every target, then even a single heavy machine gun still operational on those hills would put my men in grave danger," Augustus said.
"I must draw up a new battle plan. Otherwise, my unit will not participate in this rescue mission."
Captain Hobbes looked at Augustus, forcing a strained smile onto her gaunt, withered face.
“Of course. You may,” she said hoarsely.
“Please forgive the recklessness and discourtesy of this young man,” Augustus said as he straightened the creases in his uniform and ascended a short stairway to the main stage of the opera house.
At the moment, there were about sixty people in the audience. Most were soldiers from the third company; the remaining seats were occupied by officers. The other companies consisted mostly of re-socialized troops who clearly had no need to attend a pre-battle mobilization speech.
On the rising rows of semicircular seats, familiar and unfamiliar faces alike—eyes of all kinds—were fixed on Augustus.
“I know you, Sergeant Augustus Mengsk. Including your time in boot camp, you rose from private to sergeant in just four months,” Hobbes said as Augustus reached her side.
“You’ve earned at least three medals. Your record is more impressive and eventful than some Marine veterans with over five years of service. And the recent battle at Fort Howe nearly made you an overnight celebrity. Even UNN Broadcast ran stories of your heroics.”
“A scrolling ticker under the news? Sorry, Captain Hobbes, they didn’t even interview me,” Augustus replied, raising his hands to touch the holographic image hovering above the stage. Formed from countless pale blue lines, the projection spun, zoomed in, or scaled out as he moved his hands across it.
“I believe the UNN reporters are preparing to,” Hobbes replied.
The holographic image above the stage was projected by four emitters embedded in the opera house walls, capable of covering the entire stage. Yet in Augustus’s hands, it seemed no more than a toy cube to manipulate at will—a task he was long since accustomed to.
“Here.” Under his guidance, a spire-topped hill enlarged in the projection and was brought clearly into view for everyone present.
“Hill A.”
The hologram displayed the hill’s details with remarkable fidelity; the Marines in the audience could even make out a narrow gully barely a few centimeters wide and blades of grass swaying in the wind.
At the very top of the hill stood a circular bunker occupying nearly two-thirds of the summit. It had at least six firing ports in different directions—enough for the Kel-Morian firepower to cover not only the areas beyond the hill, but also to shell the internment camp nestled within it.
Beside the bunker was a rotating anti-air missile tower with two missiles mounted on its launch rack. A land-based automatic cannon, braced between several plates of Presteel, was aimed squarely at the green plains below.
