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SCL Chapter 24: Voices of the Forgotten
🕑 Added 2025-04-10 04:02:04 +0000 UTCCentral District, Loon Town — Local Time 14:12
A third of the colonial-style buildings in Loon Town were buried beneath overgrown thorns, creeping vines, and spiky thatch. In the center, domed colonial houses stood neatly aligned alongside prefab box buildings with sharp, angular corners — a tidy, regimented grid of structures rising before Augustus and his team.
Each rooftop was fitted with antennas and solar panels, receiving transmissions and storing power.
Like many settlements on Turaxis II, Loon Town was composed of eerily similar buildings. Straight roads sliced the area into evenly spaced sectors, forming the textbook grid layout of a young colonial township. Even outsiders would find it hard to get lost here.
Scattered around the streets were a few open-top trucks and coal haulers. Public amenities like lampposts, signboards, and benches had fallen into disrepair — rusted, broken, or simply abandoned. Apart from that, Augustus saw not a single soul. The streets and plazas were deserted.
“Well, that’s not right,” Harnack muttered, his voice gruff with annoyance. “I was expecting a hero’s welcome, to be honest.”
“If you showed up with a truckload of food and fuel, I’d bet they’d make you a hero,” came Raynor’s voice over the comms. “Might even rename the place Hanktown.”
“Sounds good to me,” Harnack replied — a little too earnestly.
“That might be a problem, Mayor Harnack of Hanktown,” Augustus said dryly. “Intel says the whole town’s rebel-held.”
“Then I guess the rebels better make way for the mayor,” Harnack said with a shrug, utterly unfazed.
“All units, rally at the central plaza!” Lieutenant Warfield’s voice cut across the comms. “Stick close to your squad leaders and keep an eye on the ground — and your six!”
Loon Town’s central plaza was the only real open space in the entire settlement — just a chalked-out patch of bare ground roughly the size of a football field. Lush native plants of Turaxis II had overtaken the area, their untrimmed greenery spreading unchecked. Bright green, many-jointed insects darted between the foliage.
At the heart of the verdant square stood a lone flagpole, its mast bearing a tattered Terran Federation banner, fluttering limply in the breeze.
The entirety of First Company had deployed around the plaza. Augustus’s squad made up the third rank, stationed with the second directly beneath the flagpole behind Warfield. They faced the northern road, forming four ranks. The first rank covered the right flank, while the fourth stood behind and to the left of the third.
“People of Loon Town,” Warfield began, gripping a radio transmitter — one that was directly linked to the town’s public broadcast system. His voice echoed from every loudspeaker across the area.
“I am Lieutenant Warfield of the Terran Marine Corps. We’ve received reports that Kel-Morian spies are hiding among you — spreading lies and deceiving loyal citizens of the Federation.”
“To preserve the purity of this town and ensure its loyalty to the Terran Federation, I’ve been authorized by the planetary governor to carry out arrests,” Warfield announced. “As the highest-ranking officer in this region, I now order all inhabitants of Loon Town to gather at the central plaza for questioning. Those found innocent will be released immediately. But if you refuse to appear—”
He paused, letting the silence hang.
“Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to consider you all suspects and detain you by force.”
“You have fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m giving you. Doesn’t matter if you’re young or old, man or woman — unless you’re missing both legs, you can make it across this town in fifteen minutes.”
“Do not bring weapons. If you do, we are authorized to shoot first.”
“Lieutenant, I thought our orders were to execute the rebels, not arrest them,” said Sergeant Reagan over the squad-level comms — a private channel between the corporals, sergeants, and company officers.
“If it were up to me, no one would have to die,” Warfield answered. “Unless absolutely necessary, I won’t let this turn into a massacre.”
When he finished speaking, the company-wide comms fell utterly silent. His words had been transmitted not just through the speakers, but also across the entire First Company’s public frequency — over two hundred soldiers — leaving no doubt as to where he stood on this mission.
Augustus stood just behind Warfield, beside Raynor and Harnack. The HUD on his visor had been switched to thermal mode, allowing him to see the red silhouettes of people hiding inside homes and underground shelters.
Real-time 3D scans of several residential buildings hovered in the upper right corner of his display, while a drop-down status bar showed wind speed, humidity, and temperature.
Minutes passed. The number of red silhouettes on Augustus’ HUD steadily grew. The townsfolk of Loon began to gather, arriving at the central square in scattered groups, either driving ground-hugging cars or riding mag-lev bikes. The breathing in the public comms channel grew heavier, and Augustus instinctively tightened his grip on his Gauss rifle.
Most of the townsfolk came armed with whatever they had—mining picks, shovels, entrenching tools, old powder-based automatic rifles from the previous century, shotguns, and bolt-action hunting rifles. Only a small number carried electromagnetic or laser weapons—Augustus guessed they were the organizers or leaders.
The hostile-looking Loon townsfolk used their retrofitted personal vehicles and farming tractors to form a perimeter around the square. Augustus made a rough count—there were already more than three hundred of them, and the number was still growing.
Warfield watched the scene with an impassive expression, then slowly lowered the visor of his powered armor.
Every visor of the 33rd Ground Assault Division’s powered suits, including Augustus’, bore a stylized design: the sharp snout of a wolf, white fur on the cheeks, inverted triangular eyes, and two pointed ears—all painted in gray and white.
Still, Augustus always felt that if he could just stop imagining it as a husky, the design would actually look pretty intimidating.
“I demand to speak with your commander!” someone called out from the crowd. Now over five hundred strong, a representative had stepped forward from the gathering, stopping about 400 yards in front of Augustus.
“I’m the one you're looking for,” Warfield responded, his voice colder and more detached than Augustus had ever heard. “Tell your people to lower their weapons. I swear, I’ll let the past go. This is your final warning.”
“We will never lay down the arms that protect our freedom!” shouted a man from Turaxis with a trimmed mustache. He stepped forward without hesitation, glaring at Warfield. “Listen to me—you can’t do this!”
“Decades ago, it was my father—our fathers—who came here,” the Turaxis man continued, voice passionate. “We fought beasts and venomous insects to claim this land. We cleared the soil, built our homes, and turned the wilderness into farmland. Everything you see here is the result of generations of hard work.”
“And what has the Federal Government ever done for us? All they do is tax us—tax, tax, and more tax. They didn’t even build us a proper road. When cheap goods from Tarsonis flooded our markets, the Governor’s Office and the Federal Market Authority sat on their hands and did nothing, watching the disaster unfold.”
“When the local factories went bankrupt and unemployment skyrocketed, they pretended to care by announcing some half-baked ‘Turaxis Economic Relief Program’—but by then, it was far too late.”
“And even then, not a single coin from that so-called relief plan ever reached us!”
There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd. Warfield and his soldiers remained silent.
“When war broke out, the Marines didn’t protect us—they sent our children off to fight!” The mustached man grew more agitated, raising his fist in the air. “We don’t need the Terran Federation! And we don’t need the Kel-Morians either! Loon belongs to the people who live here!”
“I’m ordering you to leave immediately! Or my people will open fire!”
“What an idiot,” Raynor grumbled over Squad One’s private channel. “He almost had me convinced. If he’d asked us to leave a little more nicely, Warfield might’ve actually turned around and walked away.”
“Does he seriously think a bunch of farm hicks waving firewood can punch through my ‘Knight Armor’? No way, right?” Josephine, a noble by birth and far less sympathetic than Raynor, scoffed. “The fact that they dare threaten the Marine Corps is just laughable.”
