Chapter 784: The Fleet's Dilemma
The transport fleet broke free from Meinhoff's gravity well, scattering like a school of terrified fish before converging on the Hyperion and its accompanying modified cargo vessels, which were anchored in high orbit, forming a makeshift fleet.
The scarred, battered ships docked or moored one after another. Airlocks hissed open, embracing the final batch of survivors into their relatively safe, metallic holds.
However, "safe" only meant they were temporarily away from the twisted monsters on the surface.
The crisis brewing within the fleet was rapidly manifesting in another form.
The Hyperion's hangar decks and multiple expanded cargo holds were already packed with refugees evacuated from Tal'Deria and Agria, who had not yet been offloaded.
And the new, vastly larger wave of survivors who had just escaped Meinhoff primarily filled every available space within the modified cargo ships and large transports.
The total population carried by the entire fleet had suddenly skyrocketed to an astronomical figure—over a hundred thousand.
This number itself signified that many lives had been saved, but the number of people who couldn't be evacuated from Meinhoff, or who had already perished to the infection, remained a staggering tragedy.
From a cruel perspective, allowing so many to escape that hell was perhaps a "blessing in disguise," at least avoiding the most horrific nightmare scenario: a massive outbreak of the infected within the confined spaces of the ships, thanks to the strictest pre-boarding screenings.
But the only benefit this "luck" brought was that the vast majority survived for the moment. The subsequent, exponentially growing pressure of survival crashed over the entire fleet like a tsunami.
The shadow of supply shortages gripped the throat of this massive refugee fleet like cold, hard iron pincers.
Valerie walked through a temporary holding area converted from the lower cargo deck of a massive transport ship.
This space, originally used for hauling ore, was now packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people.
The air was thick with a suffocating stench: the heavy body odor of thousands of people packed together, the smell of rot from untreated wounds, the reek of human waste, the sharp tang of cheap disinfectant, and an almost palpable, invisible pressure called despair.
People were squeezed like sardines onto thin mats laid over the cold metal floor, or curled up in the gaps between cargo racks. Their eyes were numb. The only sounds were the weak, continuous crying of children, the suppressed groans of the wounded, and sporadic arguments sparked by hunger and anxiety.
The scarcity of medical resources had reached a catastrophic level.
The limited medical stations on each ship had long since been overrun.
Dr. Hanson and her small team were exhausted, running themselves ragged between the ships like firefighters. The Hyperion's original medical systems were also under total strain.
Faced with a tidal wave of burns, lacerations, frostbite, infections, and various acute conditions brought on by extreme terror and a hostile environment, the medicine and equipment on hand were but a drop in the bucket.
Medical kits, antibiotics, painkillers, plasma substitutes—even the most basic bandages and sutures—were vanishing at a visible rate.
The wounds of many casualties could only receive the most rudimentary treatment, leading to spreading infections and complications.
A soldier with a torn abdomen was being stitched up without anesthesia or effective hemostatics. His screams plunged the entire compartment into a deathly silence; the cork he bit down on was soaked in blood and saliva.
The food and water situation was even more dire.
The meager supplies hastily brought up from Meinhoff were undeniably a drop in the ocean for over a hundred thousand starving mouths.
Strict rationing was immediately enforced, but the rations were compressed to the absolute minimum required to sustain basic metabolism.
An adult might only receive a single high-density nutrient bar and less than five hundred milliliters of recycled, purified water per day. Children and the wounded received slightly more, but it was still far from enough.
The nutrient bars were as hard as rocks and tasted like wax, but in the face of bone-deep hunger, people even licked the crumbs from the wrappers clean.
Drinking water was strictly controlled, washing was a luxurious fantasy, and cracked, peeling lips became a universal facial feature.
"The supplies we managed to snatch from Meinhoff when we left account for less than five percent of our estimated minimum requirements," Matt Horner reported during an emergency briefing on the bridge. Facing Raynor, Valerie, Dr. Hanson, and several grim-faced Raider officers, every number on the inventory manifest he displayed flashed red. "And that's not even counting the fleet's original, nearly depleted reserves."
"Based on the current total population and the absolute minimum survival consumption model, all medical supplies—especially antibacterial agents—will be completely exhausted within forty-eight hours."
"Food and fresh water... will last ninety-six hours at most. Four days. After four days, we will face a total humanitarian collapse."
The cold, hard numbers on the screen plunged the briefing room into an even longer, heart-palpitating silence.
Four days. In the vast expanse of the universe, four days wasn't even enough time for them to sail out of their current sector and find a reliable resupply point.
"We can't stay in Meinhoff orbit. The Swarm, or those... integrated variants, could turn their attention to our conspicuous orbital target at any moment," Raynor broke the silence. His voice was hoarse from stress and exhaustion, and he pressed his fingers hard against his temples. "And returning to any Core World of the Terran Dominion is out of the question."
"Arcturus Mengsk would love nothing more than for our group of 'troublemakers' to vanish into space. He will absolutely not open his ports to us. Let alone the fact that we're dragging over a hundred thousand mouths to feed, along with the potential risk of undetected infection—under Dominion law, that's enough reason to quarantine or outright destroy us."
"What about other human colonies?" a Raider officer asked, clutching at a slim hope.
Matt smiled bitterly and shook his head, bringing up the star map.
The human-controlled regions of the Koprulu Sector were covered in glaring red markers.
"According to the last batch of wide-area distress signals and reconnaissance data we received before evacuating, although the Swarm's primary push is toward the Core Worlds, their rate of expansion is beyond imagination."
"Gerard, Mar Sara, Tal'Deria... the fringe agricultural or mining colonies we know of that have the capacity to take people in are either already overrun or under direct threat from the Swarm's vanguard, struggling to save themselves."
"What's left are either worthless wasteland planets or heavily fortified Dominion stronghold worlds that will absolutely never open their doors to us."
The star map painted a dismal picture; the areas of human activity had been pitifully compressed.
"Then..." Raynor's gaze moved slowly across the star map, finally settling on a region on the far side, marked by a soft golden halo. "We only have one direction left to go."
Everyone's gaze followed his—the edge of Protoss-controlled space.