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.