SCL Chapter 119: The Iron Justice Returns

Charles Horner had once served under Arcturus Mengsk himself, back when Arcturus had been just a lieutenant. He had been a member of Mengsk’s original Imperial Squad under the 33rd Ground Assault Division.

A brawny man with a square jaw and massive shoulders, Charles came from a backwater frontier world where even electricity was unreliable. Two generations had passed, and his home still hadn’t managed to establish a functional industrial base.

People there lived almost primitively. Outside the main settlement—cobbled together from salvaged colony ship parts—residents survived through farming and herding. The planet’s population barely exceeded 15,000, and due to its remoteness and lack of profitable resources, traders visited maybe once every five years—if at all. Scavengers were the only regular visitors.

Like many others from the outer colonies, Charles was seen by core-world citizens as a crude, foul-mouthed bumpkin. His speech, peppered with profanity and colloquialisms, often made 'civilized' people recoil as if he were spouting nonsense.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” Warfield muttered, despite having seen the news multiple times.

“Even if Korhal IV had a massive insurgent force
 could it really be more dangerous than the entire Kel-Morian Combine, with its population of over six billion? I thought this was just another planetary landing op.”

“It’s like walking barefoot across a beautiful meadow and stepping in a pile of dog crap.”

Charles shrugged, delivering his signature brand of metaphor. “That’s the truth.”

“If no hacker had broken into the UNN Interstellar News Network, then by early June, the only message we would’ve received
 is that Korhal IV had already been destroyed,” Warfield said.

“Arcturus will lose his mind,” Charles replied. “He loved Korhal deeply. If any of you had ever seen the tenderness in his face when writing letters to his mother and sister, you’d understand just how much he loved them.”

“And if you ask me—when someone wrongs you, you make them pay. Eye for an eye.”

“How could they do this to Korhal? Even if they were slaughtering livestock in the same numbers, they’d still feel some damn shred of pity, wouldn’t they?”

Warfield turned to the officers gathered around him.

“It is our sense of human identity that separates us from beasts—that’s the root of all civilization.”

“This isn’t just about rebellion. If one day your own homeworld suffers the same fate as Korhal, for whatever reason
 what then? What do we do?”

“We can’t keep going like this, my friends. More and more, I’ve come to doubt whether this government is still worth fighting for,” Warfield declared.

“What are we waiting for, then? What do we do?” one of the captains asked.

“We take control of this battlecruiser by force,” Warfield said. “Cut every single military comms channel—completely sever our connection with fleet command and Tarsonis.”

“We will no longer fight for the Federation. We’ll go into deep space. Disappear into the dark.”

“Give the order, Colonel,” the officers responded in unison.

Warfield’s men were furious—utterly disgusted by the Federation Parliament’s decision. Many were sick with shame for ever having served such a regime. One by one, they resolved to follow their commander and leave the military behind.

“The Federation Parliament will pay the price eventually,” Charles said. “They sure love dirty bombs
”

“But my old hunting teacher used to say—‘He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.’”

...

Hyperion, in synchronous orbit around Soryan.

Bridge, A.D. 2489.06.08, shipboard time 16:21.

“Marshal Mengsk.”

A Revolutionary Army staff officer in a dark gray heavy wool uniform approached Augustus and Raynor, who were standing in front of the star chart console.

“The main control room just received a communication request—multiple layers of encryption.”

“Patch it through,” Augustus said, looking at his aide. “Bring it up on the bridge’s main screen.”

“Transmitting now. This is the Iron Justice. Horace Warfield speaking—Augustus, I knew it was you.”

The screen lit up with the image of a dark-skinned Terran Dominion Marine Corps officer with a mustache. He still wore his formal dress uniform, but there were no medals or ribbons pinned to it.

“You’re not seeing things,” Augustus replied.

“Took some doing.” Warfield grinned. “Using public relays and comm buoys clearly wasn’t going to cut it. So we jumped straight to Korhal IV. I met with Mr. Angus Mengsk—he’s a charismatic and remarkable leader.”

“I can’t believe it, Warfield. Last I heard, you were labeled a ‘deserter,’ with half the Dominion fleet on your tail,” said Raynor. Unlike Augustus, Raynor’s gray Revolutionary Army officer uniform was far from neat—his collar, pant legs, and cuffs all wrinkled.

“Not half, but there were a few fleets. Took quite some effort to shake them off completely.” Warfield waved it off. “We’ve dropped out of hyperspace and are currently jumping to the designated rally point.”

A green-tinted holographic display popped up on the star chart console beside Augustus. On the radar map, a Behemoth-class battlecruiser was racing at full speed toward the central main-sequence star of the Soryan system. Below the cruiser were several lines of data, including service duration. According to Hyperion’s old database, the Iron Justice had also been an early-commissioned vessel.

“Looks like you’ve pulled together quite a fleet. At least three hundred ships, maybe more.”

“A lot of them, sure—and a mess of different gear. From Umoja’s phase disruptor cannons that can shatter matter at the molecular level, to good old shell-loaded cannons, even a Xekiris blade you can twirl like a showpiece. You’ll find it all in this fleet.”

Augustus wasn’t thrilled with the hodgepodge of equipment in the fleet, which was precisely why the Iron Justice’s arrival meant so much to him.

Umoja had already mastered the construction of Behemoth-class battlecruisers through reverse engineering and deconstruction tech, though the real challenges lay in the reactors and next-generation hyperspace drives. Compared to the Umojans—with their self-sustaining industrial base and formidable shipbuilding capacity—Korhal IV, even with the construction know-how, still couldn’t produce such cruisers in its own shipyards.

To Augustus, every Behemoth-class battlecruiser was priceless.

More importantly, Warfield was a seasoned warrior with over a decade of battlefield experience—brave, decisive, and tactically brilliant. In a Revolutionary Army starved for military leadership, he was unquestionably the ideal marshal to command the troops.

“Just a few months ago, most of these ships were hauling freight. Their armor was more than enough for fending off space pirates, but now we’re up against Dominion fleets. Who knows how many more Behemoths they’ve got, like Hyperion and Iron Justice?”

“I’ve missed that vintage port you kept stashed away, Warfield. Let’s catch up on the bridge of the Iron Justice.”

Although Warfield’s defection had been within Augustus’s expectations, hearing the man himself ask to join the Korhal Revolutionary Army still filled him with elation.

“You’re welcome anytime,” Warfield replied with a grin before ending the transmission. “Let’s call it a date—though no alcohol on duty. We’ll have to settle for tea.”

“Kerrigan, have the docks prep a shuttle. I’m heading over to the Iron Justice,” Augustus said, tilting his head to the left.

A red-haired Ghost operative, previously cloaked, revealed herself, gave a silent 'OK' gesture with her fingers, and vanished again.

“Damn it, Kerrigan—you scared the hell out of me.”

Raynor flinched instinctively as the figure suddenly materialized nearby.

“Jim, while I’m gone, you’ll be in charge of the fleet,” Augustus said, patting Raynor on the shoulder. “Is Tychus still asleep?”

“Or playing cards.” Raynor shrugged. “What else would he be doing? It’s never anything good. He’s been slacking off these past few weeks aboard the Hyperion—getting drunk, hitting on the female engineers, picking fights... The whole place is a mess. Swann’s at odds with him too.”

“You know exactly what kind of bastard Tychus is.”

“He always stirs up trouble when he’s got nothing to shoot at,” Augustus groaned at the mere mention of him.

“And when there is a battle, he won’t shut up,” Raynor added with a smirk. “There are only two places that truly suit Tychus: prison and the battlefield. He thrives in both—like a fly on a garbage heap.”

“That’s why I never made him the actual captain of Titan-class escort ship No. 2. I gave him a cushy title with no real duties—just a paycheck. And would you believe it? He was thrilled to get paid for doing nothing. Even made me promise not to go back on it. Imagine that—Tychus demanding to lead a unit one day.”

“God help us. Please don’t let that happen,” Raynor said immediately, then asked, “You’re really going over to the Iron Justice?”

“The crew over there are all former Dominion soldiers. They answer to Warfield. That doesn’t mean they’ll be loyal to you.”

“I’ll take a few more people with me,” Augustus replied casually. “Besides, when you’ve fought side by side, you can trust Warfield.”

With that, Augustus turned and left the bridge, walking through the ship’s corridors toward the lower decks and into the crew quarters. There, he found Tychus, shirtless and in the middle of a card game, and dragged him out by force. Under Augustus’s command—and the overwhelming pressure of his sheer presence—Tychus had no choice but to get into his custom-fitted CMC-250 powered armor within five minutes and grab his Sweet Persuader heavy machine gun.

“Tychus,” Augustus said as they headed toward the launch bay, “I’m taking you to see an old friend.”

“My only old friends are stacks of cash and maxed-out credit chips,” Tychus replied with a grin. “So
 we finally going on a heist? I’ve already picked a few targets: the Dominion’s main hub on Zanadar Prime or maybe Tyrador III. Then we fence the loot on Deadman’s Port.”

“We’re the Revolutionary Army, Tychus. We fight tyranny—we’re not thieves.”

“Oh—don’t worry. You only need to say it once.”