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SCL Chapter 39: Goodbye, Brothers
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 05:32:46 +0000 UTC“This is an order, Lared,” Augustus said, pointing toward the exit of A-220 Commercial Street. “Head in that direction. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lared gave a textbook-perfect salute and immediately turned, sprinting toward the exit.
Augustus watched as Lared moved through several squads ahead, pushing past them amid their surprised cries. With steady strides, the marine—once a convicted murderer turned resocialized soldier—crossed the threshold.
“Get ready, Ryk.”
“Got it, Mengsk. You’ve got my sniper badge on the line—I won’t miss.”
Ryk Kydd gripped his sniper rifle tightly. The onboard computer inside his armor displayed calculations on his scope—temperature, humidity, elevation, air pressure—automatically assisting in adjusting for height and windage deviations. Within a single heartbeat, Ryk squeezed the first trigger stage. In that moment, all external noise—everything—seemed to fade away.
Now, he only had to watch for the split-second muzzle flash from the sniper rifle on the rooftop opposite. If he could catch it, he would eliminate the enemy before they could retreat and relocate.
With all his focus fixed on the crosshairs of his scope, something imperceptible happened—his wide-open eyes faintly glimmered with gold. This subtle glow was a sign of awakened psionic energy. More advanced human psionics could make their eyes blaze like molten gold when using their power.
At that moment, the rain seemed to slow down.
In Ryk’s world, time itself began to flow at a different pace—as if he’d stepped into a slowed-down dimension overlapping the real one.
This slowed perception made it easier for him to seize the right moment to shoot. With just the subtlest twitch of his finger, he could crack open the skull of any target. So far, Ryk had never missed a shot—except when interrupted by uncontrollable external forces.
In the blink of an eye, Ryk spotted a fleeting glint of light on an electronics building across the way. In less than a breath’s time, he had locked onto the target. Before the hooded sniper in the gray cloak could escape and reposition, a heavy thud echoed as Ryk’s rifle butt slammed into his shoulder plate—time resumed its normal pace.
A wave of satisfaction and fulfillment surged through him. It was a feeling he had never experienced in all eighteen years growing up as heir to the Bennett family. The thrill of the kill fascinated Ryk—and was steadily transforming him into a brilliant and merciless assassin.
Ryk had fully accepted this new role—and was perfectly content with it.
“Target eliminated. I’ll continue surveillance while you cross the square,” Ryk said, swiftly leaving his original position.
“Excellent.”
Augustus’s voice came through clearly over the comm channel.
From a different floor, Ryk redeployed his sniper rifle and peered through the scope once more. He could see a unit clad in silver-gray powered armor jogging across the central plaza. He tracked them through the scope until the last man passed through the entrance to the wider Route 40.
Suddenly, Ryk found himself wondering how Augustus had managed to provoke the enemy sniper into firing so decisively. But he quickly pushed the thought aside. In Ryk’s mind, there was nothing Augustus couldn’t accomplish.
After Augustus’s force entered Route 40, they gradually linked up with Fifth Battalion and other company units. Along the road, the Federal troops encountered only scattered resistance from Kel-Morian forces—along with a few tanks.
Kel-Morian tanks were barely tanks in the traditional sense. They were more like heavy tracked armored vehicles converted from mining tractors. These makeshift tanks were armored with welded Plasteel panels, their skirts and front treads bristling with sharp spikes. Their turrets came in a hodgepodge of styles and calibers.
Some Kel-Morian tanks even had two main cannons—mounted fore and aft—but their turrets couldn’t rotate.
The tractor engines required external water tanks for cooling. As the engines roared like bellowing giants, bursts of steam hissed from beneath the tanks’ hatches.
The combat style of these Kel-Morian tanks was equally ferocious. Their crazed drivers often preferred to charge straight at the Federation marines while they still had plenty of shells remaining, crushing them alive beneath their treads.
However, a few tanks were not enough to break through the Federation forces. They were soon destroyed by anti-tank weapons, clearing the path to the city center. Augustus’s unit followed the other companies westward.
At the same time, Federation assault forces advancing from different directions had already entered the city. The Kel-Morian fortifications and defensive positions surrounding their command center, satellite communications stations, and heavy industry plants were taken one after another.
The fleet battle in synchronous orbit above Turaxis II was also drawing to a close. Under the assault of Alpha and Delta Squadrons—consisting of nearly ten Leviathan- and Behemoth-class battlecruisers, along with their assault and escort ships—the last three Kel-Morian battlecruisers jumped out of orbit.
In deep space, wreckage from the battle drifted into eternal silence once the last traces of oxygen within were consumed. Thousands of fragmented steel shards orbited the planet. Every crushed and molten compartment and deck had become a cold tomb for dozens—sometimes hundreds—of lost souls.
With no fleet or air support left, the Kel-Morian units closest to Polk’s Pride were locked in fierce combat with the Federation. By 14:00, even the most hardline war overseers within the Kel-Morian command center had acknowledged that their defeat was inevitable.
By the time Augustus’s squad reached the city center, the last remaining Kel-Morian units had already begun surrendering to the Federation under their commanders’ orders.
At 17:00, the final Kel-Morian unit still putting up resistance was defeated by the Federation forces.
The 4th Brigade, 5th Battalion assembled on a landing pad near the Kel-Morian command center. Augustus, along with a grief-stricken Raynor and the others, sat in silence on the tarmac, waiting for the transport to arrive.
At 19:00, a heavy APOD transport carried Augustus’s squad across the Paddick River, returning them to the 5th Battalion base. As soon as they disembarked, a Staff Sergeant at the camp called Augustus with grim news—Omer’s condition had remained critical ever since he was admitted to the marine hospital in Polk’s Pride.
Augustus and Raynor immediately boarded a supply vehicle bound for the hospital. During the ride, Augustus wore a rare expression of exhaustion and said nothing. Raynor, visibly more devastated, didn’t know how he would even begin to explain the situation to Omer’s family—or his own.
Even if Omer managed to survive, he would most likely need artificial organs and mechanical limbs just to live a normal life.
But realistically speaking, they had only come to see Omer one last time.
Before entering the hospital, both Augustus and Raynor had mentally prepared themselves, determined not to let their sorrow affect Omer. But when a nurse pushed a flatbed cart carrying Omer’s body past them, neither could hold back their tears.
A week later, the ashes of Benjamin and Omer were returned home for burial. The 4th Brigade, 5th Battalion was reassigned from Polk’s Pride. Augustus’s squad boarded a train with their company, bound for Fort Howe, a thousand kilometers away. They were stationed at the fortress the very night they arrived, to help ease the growing pressure on local garrisons brought on by increasingly active Kel-Morian forces in the surrounding area.
...
Dispatch Hall, Fort Howe, morning of July 16.
For Private Second Class Tychus Findlay, today was a good day—because it marked the first day he had escaped the living hell of R-156 Federal Prison.
Tychus was a veteran. He had once held the rank of staff sergeant and was only a few Kel-Morian heads away from a promotion to gunnery sergeant. But after attempting to steal a cache of battlefield-confiscated supplies, Tychus had not only been demoted all the way down—he was also thrown in prison.
According to Article 2, Section 76, Chapter 14 of the Unified Federal Military Code, Tychus should have been executed immediately. But perhaps the Marine Corps brass believed that a dead marine was less valuable than a disgraced one—so, in the end, he was allowed to live.
During the three-month term of forced labor, Tychus had to work sixteen hours a day at a federal mining site, digging for ore with explosives, wheelbarrows, and pickaxes—the most primitive and dangerous tools imaginable—without any protective gear. Even so, he made it through and was eventually permitted to rejoin the Marine Corps as a private.
One transfer order relocated Tychus, and other soldiers reinstated under various circumstances from Planet Raydin III to Turaxis II, where they were assigned to the garrison stationed at Fort Howe, a key federal military stronghold on the planet.
Situated far from the equator in a frigid climate, the guards standing duty outside the dispatch hall at Fort Howe were all bundled up in heavy gray wool coats, leather earflap hats, and knee-high leather boots. The men stationed here were all real marines—not the kind who had to wear flashy powered armor or pilot decommissioned Goliath mechs just to impress some wide-eyed boys into enlisting.
