StarCraft: Lord of the Empire

Dead Man's Rock was a world veiled in gray haze. Its cold, ashen atmosphere wrapped the planet like an impenetrable shell. At first glance, anyone would assume it to be a toxic wasteland riddled with swamps and poisonous mists.

Severe industrial pollution was the chief reason this planet had transformed into its current state. Foundries, crystal processing plants, and gas refineries on the surface spewed thick plumes of smoke into the sky. The resulting dark-gray clouds and industrial soot were so dense that they blocked out even the light of the sun.

Untreated wastewater was routinely dumped into what were once sapphire-blue lakes and rivers. This reckless contamination led to the death of several major water systems on Deadman's Rock, forcing residents to import clean water and non-synthetic, natural food from other planets.

Compared to Tyrador IX—a colony already notorious for its repeated labor scandals involving illegal contract workers—the situation for Deadman's Rock settlers was far worse. Here, a grotesque social structure and rigid economic system meant entire generations were trapped in corporate-run factories, surviving on meager wages.

The first colonists had once stepped onto this mysterious frontier full of hope, never imagining their descendants would become the sacrifices in a ruthless pursuit of corporate profit.

The region's endless rainfall and the colony's alarmingly high rates of birth defects and cancer ravaged the health of its inhabitants. Yet in stark contrast, those living in Deadman's Port—the planet's largest city—enjoyed a completely different standard of life. The factory administrators and technical elites led comfortable, detached lives utterly unlike the workers under their command.

Deadman's Port, the capital city of the planet, had grown from a small stretch of port-side land into one of the most socially stratified cities in the entire Terran Federation.

"But Deadman's Rock isn't a dead world. Millions of people live here—people just like you and me."

This was the first thing the mercenary, Graven Hill, said to Augustus after boarding the expansive bridge of the Norad II.

"Welcome to Deadman's Rock. Around here, we usually say this godforsaken planet is like a pus-filled boil on the ass of the so-called God—or whoever supposedly created this universe.

Still, what can I say? At least we haven't hit the point of no return. Not yet."

At that moment, Augustus's fleet was drifting silently in orbit, roughly 320 kilometers above the planet's surface, circling in passive mode.

Officers and advisors in brown military uniforms, all sporting regulation caps, moved in and out of the heavily guarded command bridge. Meanwhile, repair technicians in flat-topped caps and noise-dampening earmuffs were busy tending to circuitry. Outside, robotic drones equipped with magnetic appendages clung to the outer hull, patching the damaged bridge armor.

Graven Hill hadn't realized that most of the crew aboard the Norad II were former personnel from Warfield's Iron Justice. Their professionalism reflected the discipline of true military men. All Hill could do was marvel at the Revolutionary Army's astonishing level of order and their sharp, efficient execution—so unlike the noisy, self-serving mercenaries he usually dealt with.

"Hello, Mr. Hill. Last time we met was on Turaxis II," Augustus said as he shook Hill's hand.

Hill was still wearing his signature sunglasses. In Augustus's memory, the man had never once taken them off.

"Back then, I never imagined you'd go from a frontline Marine to the Terran Federation's most wanted fugitive," Hill said with a wide grin.

Noticing the red-haired female soldier beside Augustus watching him closely, Hill simply returned a friendly smile, completely unaware that she could probably dig up even the most embarrassing memories of his childhood—like the time he wet himself.

The sixteen-year-old Sarah Kerrigan still bore traces of youth on her face. She wasn't always cold and distant. Quite the opposite, in fact—someone so intimately familiar with human nature knew exactly which expressions evoked the most warmth and trust.

The moment Hill locked eyes with her, Kerrigan gave a slight nod. Her fiery ponytail swayed with the motion. She smiled lightly—eyes bright, teeth immaculate.

"You flatter me. I'm a law-abiding citizen," Augustus replied with a grin. "And I have a certificate from the Tarsonis Police Department to prove it. It didn't even cost me that much."

"You probably have no idea how much you're worth," Hill said, retracting his hand at just the right moment. "You're second only to your father, Angus Mengsk. And we all figure his bounty's made of diamonds and gold."

"The higher my price, the deeper the Federation's hatred for me," Augustus said calmly. "That just means none of the sacrifices were in vain."

"So, you really want to save others through this revolution of yours?" Hill asked. He couldn't quite grasp the ideals behind the uprising on Korhal IV. Not that he thought it was meaningless—after all, any war that required mercenaries was welcome in his book. "Either way, the mercenaries are always happy to take a stab for you."

"Good," Augustus replied, turning his gaze toward the bridge viewport and the planet below. "Because now's exactly when I need you most."

Orbiting at the same velocity as the Norad II, a massive space station and its surrounding ring-shaped port slowly revolved around Deadman's Port.

The Hyperion, painted in its signature blue armor, was docking at one of the station's berths. A variety of ships and airships clustered around the massive battleship as it maneuvered into position. Beneath the Norad II's port side, the gray-white Iron Justice, escorted by a squadron of Wraith fighters, was slowly pulling away—gradually coming into view for both Augustus and Hill.

"When my fleet takes control of this space station, all defense duties will be handed over to my people," Augustus suddenly said, turning to Hill. "That way, you won't have to pay them, Mr. Hill—my friend."

"This station is staffed entirely by the most trusted mercenaries under Harris and me. They're all Kel-Morian or Umojan."

In that moment, Hill realized that even though this was a mercenary stronghold, he no longer held the upper hand. If Augustus ever decided to seize control of the station, the mercenaries would face a brutal fight.

Did he really understand what kind of person Augustus was?

Was he truly the Heaven's Devil that the UNN broadcasts portrayed—a harbinger of war and death?

"Of course. I'd be more than happy to oblige."

Hill understood that Augustus wouldn't risk an all-out confrontation with the mercenaries. The tension came not from any real threat, but from mutual distrust—and from Augustus's relentless desire for control.

Still, watching the Hyperion as it pulled into port, Hill couldn't help gnashing his teeth. He was starting to wonder if he hadn't just invited the wolf into the fold.

But regardless of his doubts, Augustus paid well.

Hill had no idea where all that money was coming from—but even if it had been looted from the Terran Federation Bank, he'd still take the job.

For the right price, Hill was always willing to set aside his pride—or even compromise his principles, temporarily.

"How long are you planning to stay?" he asked Augustus, as the Norad II, following the Iron Justice, was towed into the dock.

"Two days should be enough for my crew to patch the holes in the hull," Augustus replied. "We could leave at any time—or we might end up staying longer. It depends."

"In addition to recruiting mercenaries," he continued, "I also plan to establish several enlistment centers on Deadman's Rock. For that, I'll need help from local mercs familiar with the terrain."

"The Revolutionary Army's recruitment centers will extend an olive branch to anyone on this planet who resents corporate monopoly rule. Anyone who wants change will be our target."

"With proper vetting, the people here can be extremely reliable and hardworking," Hill nodded. "Deadman's Rock produces folks who are tougher than those in the Core Worlds—sturdier, more resilient."

In a way, all Terrans who managed to survive in the harsh frontier systems of the Terran Federation had robust, highly adaptive bodies.

The intense radiation in certain star systems was slowly—but steadily—altering human genes. Though the most obvious signs might not appear for thousands of years.

As Augustus and Hill continued their conversation, the Norad II, guided by a tethered drone, slowly navigated into Dock B-2.

Even with all other vessels cleared from the bay, the dock still felt far too cramped for a warship of this size.

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