TitoVillar
patreon
SCL Chapter 28: Steel, Dust, and Silence
🕑 Added 2025-04-10 19:33:03 +0000 UTCAugustus noticed that the engineers wearing orange-gray uniforms were all quite young. The insignias on their uniforms indicated they were only temporary conscripts from the local area, drafted by the Starfleet Marine Corps. This type of recruitment usually involved refugees, and if the war went well, their term of service wouldn't exceed two years.
Now, the bridges and railway lines spanning the Paddick River had been cut off by the Kel-Morian forces. The famous 'Seven Sisters' bridge—renowned throughout the colony worlds—had either been blown up, its main structure sunk to the riverbed, or had disappeared beneath the torrential waters that swelled during the rainy season.
In a roughly one-kilometer-wide stretch along both riverbanks, all structures, lighthouse docks, and greenbelts had been leveled. In their place were heaps of rubble, shattered glass, and swirling clouds of dust and sand stirred up by the wind.
On the southern bank of the Paddick River were stationed two brigades of Federal Starfleet Marines, one army division, two artillery regiments, an armored tank division, and three Avenger air wings. On the northern side, a Kel-Morian Ripper Corps had taken position. The terrain across the river was dotted with bunkers the Kel-Morian construction workers had built by reinforcing the remnants of old buildings, along with makeshift shelters made from stacked sandbags.
Once they arrived at the construction site, Captain Warfield issued task assignments through each platoon leader to the individual squads. Every detail was laid out: where each soldier was supposed to be at every moment, what task they were responsible for, and who was in charge of overseeing them.
Augustus's squad had been assigned to patrol a roughly one-kilometer radius around the construction zone as scouts, tasked with detecting any Kel-Morian infiltrators. Every fifteen minutes, he was required to report in through the comms system inside his power armor.
That entire day, Augustus and his team carried out their patrol as ordered. Their designated area was a city ruin, a wasteland of broken walls and collapsed buildings. The bricks were cracked, and twisted water pipes lay exposed under the scorching sun.
This had once been the heart of the city—the bustling commercial district. Towering skyscrapers once loomed over luxurious Rococo-style villas owned by the wealthy. Now, only a few of the sturdiest buildings still stood, the most intact being a half-destroyed statue of the goddess Europa.
Throughout the mission, Augustus didn’t encounter anyone besides the other squads. When he patrolled closer to the Paddick River, he raised his binoculars to observe the river and the Kel-Morian positions on the opposite bank.
The Paddick River remained crystal clear, as pure as the glacial lake from which it originated. But the picturesque riverbanks and shimmering waters were long gone. What remained was only ruin—and a sorrowful river that roared in anger.
Under such circumstances, Augustus and his peers could no longer see the section of the river that had once drawn countless tourists to the Paddick–Sisters Bridge. Occasionally, they would still hear fighter jets roaring overhead.
The river was wide, and his low-magnification binoculars weren’t enough to get a clear view of the Kel-Morian fortifications or their gun emplacements on the other side.
The far bank was held by the fully equipped Kel-Morian Ripper Corps. Over the past three years, they had constructed a continuous arc of fortresses and walls along the shoreline.
Behind those thirty-foot-high walls stood missile towers, land-based cannons, and pop-up machine gun turrets. The Kel-Morian forces had heavily reinforced the sections of the river where the current slowed—spots ideal for a crossing—turning the northern bank into an impregnable military fortress.
Augustus often found himself staring at the Paddick River, wondering: if he were in command of an army, how would he cross the fierce current and send his troops to the other side to bring the war to a decisive end?
By the fourth patrol near the Paddick River, night had fallen. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and Captain Warfield ordered Augustus to return to the newly constructed military camp.
By then, the blood-red glow of sunset had faded completely. The jagged silhouettes of dark skyscrapers split the moonlit skyline like sawteeth.
Across the river, on the northern bank, beams of light from hundreds of Kel-Morian laser searchlights swept the surface and the skies above. Flares occasionally streaked across the night sky.
A few kilometers outside of Augustus' position, an artillery emplacement of the Terran Federation began its barrage. Hundreds of icy-blue flares lit up the opposite shore, and the electromagnetic pulses from the explosions briefly illuminated the night sky.
Upon returning to the construction site, Warfield immediately sent Augustus off to a prefab garage assembled with Presteel panels, while placing the rest of his troops under direct command of company headquarters.
At first, Augustus assumed there was some urgent mission to be assigned in person—or perhaps a meeting of officers. But he quickly noticed that all the other officers remained at their posts.
When he met with Warfield, the officer didn’t beat around the bush.
“Your brother arrived on Turaxis II yesterday,” he said. “His headquarters isn’t far from here. He called earlier—told me it’s been seven or eight years since he last saw you. He wants me to take you to him.”
“Arcturus? Ah—great, I’ve been looking forward to seeing him,” Augustus replied, though in truth, he wasn’t eager to meet his brother at all.
Warfield then ordered his new adjutant—a gunnery sergeant—to take temporary command of First Company and oversee their scheduled tasks.
Once again, Augustus was the one driving. His relationship with Warfield had grown considerably closer. Due to his brother’s influence, Warfield regarded Augustus almost like a younger sibling. He also genuinely admired the young man’s resilience and decisiveness.
To Warfield, Augustus was a bright young officer—more importantly, one who applied his intelligence in the right direction. He had a natural empathy and concern for others that made him truly likable.
In some ways, Augustus reminded him a lot of his brother.
An hour later, Augustus was driving Warfield’s Claymore-class command vehicle into a dense cluster of skyscrapers—towers that rose dozens, even over a hundred stories high. Beyond this concrete forest lay shorter structures, and the open layout offered a wide, panoramic view.
This area had once been home to Polk’s Pride’s largest sports stadium, with an amusement park, a zoo, and a civic plaza all nearby. Now, an entire regiment of combat engineers was using space-construction vehicles to build rows upon rows of orderly, modular barracks across the cleared terrain.
The Claymore glided through the maze of towering buildings, drawing closer to one in particular whose upper floors still glowed with light.
Though not ablaze with illumination, this building’s intact glass floors revealed the steady glow of electric lamps—signs that a gas-powered generator must be operating in its underground garage, with cabling buried safely below.
Beyond the skyscraper, up to 500 meters out, stood barricades and checkpoints. At least a platoon of marines from the 33rd Ground Assault Division was stationed here, guarding the building.
None of them spoke a word. They gripped their Gauss rifles and stared straight ahead. The silver-gray plating of their powered armor bore faint scars—long, deep gouges like scabbed-over wounds. These were signs of serious damage hastily repaired and painted over again and again, in an attempt to conceal the trauma.
Though such markings clearly violated Article 144 of the Power Armor Modification and Maintenance Code, some suits bore personal decals and graffiti besides the 33rd Division insignia—some intricate, others crude. Wolves were the common theme: a claw, an eye, or a fang. A few soldiers sported even wilder art—skeletal wolf remains bleached bone-white, or nude women in bold, stylized poses.
These details meant one of two things: either these were grizzled veterans who wore their scars like badges, or they belonged to backwater planetary garrisons—those patched-up, underfunded units who often joked that they were 'raised by a stepmother'. More likely, both were true.
None of these guards bore rank insignia. They stood completely still, like statues—silent sentinels, as unmoving as stone lions at a temple gate.
