Farley gave a voice command. One of the goliath’s massive shovel-hands rose up to meet him, he stepped onto it, and was gently lowered to the ground. The moment he stepped off, servos whined as the walker assumed a position akin to parade rest. “You must be Trace Raynor,” the marine said, as he came forward to shake hands with the farmer. “And, unless I miss my guess, this is your son, Jim, proud member of the class of 2488. Good going, young man.”

“Thanks.” As Jim shook hands with the marine, he was impressed by Farley’s high-wattage personality and the strength of his grip. There was something odd about the way he looked, though—the marine appeared to be too young for his middle-aged persona, and Jim noticed there was something strange about the way his jaw moved as he spoke. He had heard stories about how the Confederacy’s doctors could “grow” new faces for people. So maybe the marine had suffered some terrible wounds and been given a more youthful look. There was no way to be certain, but Jim thought it was totally cool.

The marine’s whites were barely wrinkled, which was no small trick, given how cramped the goliath’s cockpit must have been. A double row of medals hung on the left side of his chest, a gleaming belt encircled his waist, and his shoes were mirror-bright. All of which made quite a contrast to Trace and Jim Raynor, both of whom looked slovenly by comparison.

Recruiters were a common sight on planets like Shiloh, although they had never made the rounds in a goliath before, which said something about the wars. It had been going on for several years by that time, and even though the Confederacy’s spokespeople claimed that everything was going well, recruiting goals were increasing just as fast as taxes were. Which meant that when kids like Tom Omer and Jim Raynor graduated from upper school, they were targeted.