The Letter's in My Shirt Pocket

Augustus's Goliath stood about fifteen feet tall. Its design philosophy—maximizing caliber and ammunition capacity—was evident in every part of the Kel-Morian Goliath Mech. Compared to the Goliath Mechs built by the Terran Confederacy, the Kel-Morian models looked much rougher. Traces of civilian mining mech parts, repurposed for military use, were still visible on them.

Its blue-green paint job was a chaotic mess, without a straight line or orderly pattern in sight. It looked as though someone had simply splashed both colors across the mech's armor. A tattered flag was stuck behind the cockpit, its KM insignia barely legible.

But there was no denying that the Kel-Morians had been the ones to design and develop this powerful all-terrain walking mech, which combined ground firepower with anti-air support. Their Goliaths were even more dangerous than the Confederacy's assembly-line, modular models.

At that moment, the Goliath Mech was no more than eleven or twelve yards from Augustus and the others. The massive Kel-Morian Goliath strode up the slope and onto A-220 Commercial Street. Its shoulder-mounted autocannon swept across the unprepared Confederate Marines as the upper cockpit swiveled from side to side. In the blink of an eye, two more Marines were hit.

The Marines' dense barrage of Spike Bullets left only a patchwork of rain-like white marks on the mech's armor plating and cockpit glass—nowhere near enough to damage the steel giant.

"Ward, aim the rocket at the cockpit!" Augustus said over the comms. "Grenade!"

At the same time, Ward finished taking aim and fired the first rocket from the launcher mounted on his shoulder. The rocket could lock on and track heat sources and electromagnetic signals automatically, and it struck the Goliath's cockpit dead on.

An Electromagnetic Grenade sailed over Augustus's helmet. An electromagnetic pulse wave about twenty feet in diameter spread out from the parking lot entrance like ripples from a droplet falling into water. Arcs of electricity snaked in every direction like writhing serpents.

The chaotic pulse briefly turned Augustus's visor display into a screen of static, but it returned to normal in less than a second.

The grenade's electromagnetic pulse sent the Goliath pitching backward. It toppled onto its back.

Augustus and several nearby Marines immediately ran toward the fallen Goliath. After a few ragged breaths, he slung his Gauss Rifle across his back and climbed up the mech's exterior ladder to the cockpit.

The cockpit's reinforced glass had already been shattered by the rocket. It was so cramped that there was barely enough room for one person to sit inside. The worn leather seat had been ripped out of a scrapped tractor, and the curved control panel was covered in a jumble of buttons and displays of various sizes.

Augustus gripped the pilot by the neck. With the whine of his Power Armor's servos, he hauled out a bald Kel-Morian man wearing a black eyepatch.

The bald man's face was covered in scars left by the wind and sun of an adventurer's life. His slightly overweight body was streaked with blood where rocket shrapnel and shards of glass had pierced him. With a thud, Augustus threw the pilot to the ground, then jumped down after him, standing in the Goliath's shadow.

"Omo and Benjamin were hit," Zander said in a trembling voice over the comms. "Damn it, that bastard was aiming for our machine gunners."

"You son of a bitch!" Raynor shouted. He rushed forward, grabbed the pilot, raised his Gauss Rifle, and pointed the barrel at his nose. "I swear I'll make you regret ever being born."

Back in Raynor's hometown of Shiloh, in Centerville Town, the Omos and the Raynors had been neighbors, and their parents had been friends for years. Omo and Raynor had grown up together, as close as brothers.

"Give him to me." Augustus walked over to Raynor.

Raynor looked at Augustus. "Augustus, let me finish him."

"I said, give him to me," Augustus repeated. No one could see his expression behind his visor.

Augustus took the pilot from Raynor, grabbed him by the collar with both hands, and lifted him until their eyes were level. Perhaps he no longer had the strength to raise his head; the pilot's chin drooped, but he was still breathing.

"How many more Goliaths are there on this street, in this area? How many men are lying in wait here?" Augustus pulled the pilot's face close to his.

"What do you want to know? Hm?" The Goliath pilot struggled to lift his weather-beaten face. He bared two rows of bloodstained teeth in a trembling grin.

"The only thing I know"—he coughed—"is that you're a spineless Confederate bastard."

The pilot couldn't go on. Augustus threw him to the ground and planted his boot on the man's heaving chest.

Augustus took the Gauss Rifle from his back and gripped it with both hands, one on the barrel and the other on the magazine. He raised it high, then swung it down at the pilot's head with the force of his armor's servos. It was like swinging an axe. Blood sprayed in an instant.

"Augustus." Raynor reached out toward him, then quickly lowered his hand. Only now did he realize that even the usually mild-mannered Augustus could blaze with the fury of a thunderstorm.

Augustus pulled the rifle back as quickly as he had swung it. Gripping the bloodstained weapon, he headed back.

No one noticed the two-inch laminated photograph slowly unfolding in the Goliath pilot's right hand. It showed a smiling baby.

When Augustus rejoined his men, the comms were in chaos. Londerstein was injecting Omo with sedatives and painkillers.

"Benjamin's dead." Amy Brandon knelt beside Benjamin, who lay on his back, cradling his head in her hands.

Augustus felt his heartbeat stop for a few seconds. He walked straight over to Benjamin. Benjamin's Power Armor was a size larger than Augustus's. Three holes about two inches wide had been torn into the chest plate, marked with a white cross. One of them was directly above his heart.

Perhaps, for Benjamin, the pain had lasted only an instant. The autocannon round had punched through his chest and shredded his heart with its rapid spin. Then it had stopped beating forever.

Benjamin's eyes were closed. His face held no expression, as if he were merely asleep. Augustus said nothing, engraving the sight in his memory and vowing never to forget it.

"Report casualties." Augustus tore his gaze away and walked over to Omo, who lay nearby.

"Five Company, Third Platoon, Fourth Squad: one dead, one wounded." Corporal Hopey then swore. "There are no wounded now."

"First Company, Fourth Platoon, Second Squad: two dead," said Private First Class Laird, a soldier from another society.

Augustus knelt beside Omo. Londerstein had opened Omo's helmet, and an M-2 Backpack made of waterproof canvas covered the hole in his chest armor.

The young man stared up at the sky, his mouth gaping as he struggled to drag air into his lungs. Each breath brought on a phlegmy cough, and with every strained inhale, blood flowed into his lungs.

One of his lungs had been punctured.

"Tom, good boy, don't be afraid. It's nothing serious." Augustus's visor slowly slid up so Omo could see his face. "You're going to make it."

"Squad leader." Omo's voice was hoarse. "The letter's in my shirt pocket."

"I told you it would come in handy."