“Don’t worry, sir,” Farley replied understandingly. “I’ll follow the river over to the road when I leave.”

“Thank you,” Trace Raynor said evenly.

“No problem,” Farley said, as his eyes swiveled toward the teenager. “That’s quite a shiner, son. How does the other guy look?”

Jim had been hoping that his shades would be sufficient to hide the black eye, but it seemed that Farley could see the margins of it. He forced a grin. “I’m pretty sure he looks better than I do.”

Trace had taught his son to be modest, but he wasn’t the type to let someone’s honor be impugned. “There was a dust-up in the fuel line. Some kid cut in line and Jim put him on the pavement,” he said proudly.

Farley nodded. “Good for you, boy. It’s important to stand up for yourself. So you’re done with school… . Have you made any plans regarding what you’re going to do next?”

“No,” Jim answered honestly, staring into eyes that looked like two gun barrels. “Just work for my dad, I guess,” he said with a shrug. The words came out with such a glum tone, he immediately felt guilty. He glanced up at his father and met his knowing gaze. Jim suspected that Trace knew he wasn’t entirely happy with the future that awaited him.

Farley nodded agreeably. “That makes sense… . And I’m sure your parents appreciate it. Of course there are other ways to lend a hand. Take the current enlistment bonus for example. The government is paying a generous signing bonus to each person who joins up! That kind of lump sum would go a long way toward taking care of the bills.”

A generous bonus? That got Jim’s attention. A big chunk of money could fix everything for his parents, for the farm, maybe even his future. Was that why Tom had enlisted? After all, the Omers were even worse off than his folks.

He was about to ask the sergeant just how generous this lump sum would be, when his father frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Keep your mouth shut.

If Farley was aware of the interchange, he gave no sign of it as he turned to gesture at the goliath. “Then there’s training to think about,” he said. “You could learn to pilot a goliath, fly an Avenger, or drive a siege tank. Of course I’m a ground pounder myself—so I prefer the infantry. And that means wearing one of the new powered combat suits. There ain’t nothin’ like it, son… . Once you strap one of those bad boys on, you’ll be ready to kick ass and scan names! Come on, step onto that shovel-hand, and I’ll give you a peek at the cockpit.”

It wasn’t until Jim and the marine were off the ground and halfway up that he realized how skillfully his dad had been cut out of the conversation.

Now, some twelve feet off the ground, Jim Raynor was peering into the goliath’s well-padded cockpit. “See that cradle?” Farley inquired as he pointed downward. “Once you strap in, all you have to do is move the way you want the machine to move. Input from the sensors feeds into the onboard computer, which passes instructions along to the machine, mimicking what you did. It takes some practice, of course, and it’s more difficult when people are shooting at you, but so what? You can shoot back!

“This baby is retired now,” Farley continued, “but the pilots who rode her scored plenty of verified kills. And I don’t just mean infantry. We’re talking mechs, tanks, vultures, and Hellhounds… . So this honey deserves some easy livin’.”

As Jim leaned over the cockpit he saw a curved control panel, the worn cradle beyond, and could smell the combined odors of sweat, oil, and stale cigar smoke. All of which summoned up visions of what it would be like to strap in and stride across a cratered battlefield, as brave comrades marched on either side of him.

So cool … Jim thought. But Mom and Dad would never let me go. The teenager nodded politely, and let Farley do all the talking as the goliath placed them back on the ground. The visit came to an end shortly after that, and it wasn’t long before Farley was back in his cockpit, marching his machine down into the river. He delivered his parting comment over the loudspeaker. “Remember the Marine Corps motto, son… . ‘For family, friends, and the Confederacy.’ People are counting on you.”

Spray flew away from the goliath’s heavy feet, and the walker headed off toward the road. That was when Trace Raynor summoned a wad of spit, aimed it at a rock, and uttered a one-word editorial: “Bastards.”

Without another word the farmer entered his truck, fired it up, and took off. Seconds later he was on the dirt road that ran up toward the dome. The sun was high in the sky, there was work to do, and valuable time had been lost.

Jim watched the goliath until it vanished around the bend. He suddenly had a lot on his mind.

The sun was little more than a red smear on the western horizon by the time Jim Raynor parked the robo-harvester, walked across a dusty parking lot to the family’s home, and made his way down the ramp. Like most of the homes on Shiloh, eighty percent of the house was underground, where it was relatively immune to both summer heat and snowy winters. The dome’s top floor was protected by a semi-transparent eyelid-like membrane that could absorb sunlight during the day, send if off to be stored in the farm’s power cells, and then open up at night. Which was when Jim liked to lie back in a lounge chair and stare up at the stars.

But that was for later. First it was time to take a sonic shower, throw on some clean clothes, and make his way into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Karol Raynor’s ebony hair was streaked with gray, and wrinkles had started to appear around her green eyes, but she was still a beautiful woman. And smart too—she had been selected to attend the agricultural school in Smithson on a scholarship and was, as Trace liked to put it, “the brains of the family.”

Karol kept up with all of the most recent developments in farming technology and constantly looked for ways to stretch the family’s finances, including negotiating with creditors, a task Trace lacked the temperament for. She was a first-class cook, and thanks to her carefully sheltered vegetable garden, plus the fairly steady supply of meat provided by the local ranchers, the Raynors always had something to eat. Something Jim was especially good at. “Hi, Mom,” the teenager said, as he entered the kitchen and paused to kiss his mother’s cheek. “What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

Karol turned, opened her mouth to reply, and paused. “What happened to your eye?”

“Nothin’ much,” Jim replied evasively. “I got into a scuffle, that’s all.”

“A scuffle, huh?” Karol said cynically. “You know how I feel about fighting. We’ll discuss it at dinner. And put some ice on that thing.”

Once the family was seated around the kitchen table and everybody had been served, Jim had to tell his mother about the fight with the Harnack boy, and listen to a lecture about the importance of settling disputes with words rather than fists.

“Your mother’s right, Jim,” Trace put in. “Fighting’s not the answer. But it’s important to stand up for yourself, especially when it comes to bullies. The key is knowing when to get involved and when to walk away, because you never know what kind of mess you’re getting into until you’re up to your neck in it.”

“I hear you, Dad,” Jim said, “And I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned to Karol and manufactured a smile. “So, Mom, how was your day?”

Jim knew it was obvious that he was making a blatant attempt to change the subject, but felt relieved when his mother seemed pleased to end the discussion. She launched into what amounted to a local news report. Apparently, a new strain of drought-resistant triticale-wheat was about to become available, the Laughlins weren’t getting a divorce after all, and the sonic clothes cleaner was acting up again.