"Easy there, old Jack. No need to rush," Raynor grumbled over the internal comms. "Seriously, I'm about to hurl."
"Want to drive instead?" Jack replied leisurely.
"Shouldn't be too hard. I flew plenty of sims in the Iron Justice's holo chamber—and always topped the scores," Raynor said eagerly. "You said it yourself. Next time, I'm flying us back. I bet I'm just one epic maneuver away from earning my pilot's license!"
"Oh boy, then you'll be flying solo, Jim—'cause no one else is getting on with you!" Tychus jabbed.
"Coming in now, boys—get ready!" Jack laughed heartily. "Boots are about to hit dirt!"
The Kel-Morians in New Apollon clearly spotted the approaching transport via radar. Anti-air missiles were already in the air, forcing Little Devil to make an emergency landing in a depression roughly two kilometers outside the community.
Driven by the hydraulic system, the boarding ramp extended slowly. Augustus was the first to disembark, electromagnetic rifle in hand, scanning the terrain. The Heaven's Devils in their dark gray powered armor followed closely behind.
"I still think we should install a stealth module on Little Devil," Augustus said as he oversaw the others covering the ship with a camouflage tarp. "At least today we wouldn't have ended up tailgated by that damn Hellhound."
"You think fourth-class marines deserve this kind of treatment? Hell, the taxpayers should be grateful they're not sending us into battle in crotchless fatigues."
Tychus doused Augustus's enthusiasm with a cold splash of sarcasm.
After a month of working together, Tychus Findlay had gradually earned Augustus's trust and, bit by bit, integrated himself into this elite tactical unit. The hooded skull tattoos of the Heaven's Devils bonded them all tightly together.
Of course, that was how others saw it.
To a grizzled veteran like Tychus, these men were just another passing group in his long, drifting military career—comrades who, at least, weren't completely useless.
In the past, Tychus had never been fond of blending into groups. He was used to playing the lone wolf. He didn't have many friends, mostly because he rarely trusted anyone. Even in "business," Tychus preferred quick, clean deals with as few people involved as possible.
The more people in a job, the more shares to split.
So why did Tychus Findlay bother sticking around the Heaven's Devils, shooting the breeze with them now and then?
Simple. Their boss, Augustus Mengsk, could make money.
More importantly, Augustus was generous with his own people.
Tychus had never seen a gang leader or smuggler hand out such fat shares to his subordinates and keep so little for himself. It was almost like the guy didn't care about money at all.
And to Tychus, people like that were as unreal as noblemen in slums or saints in brothels. They weren't supposed to exist in this world.
Men like Augustus were the kind Tychus could follow. No man with blood in his veins and pride in his chest would ever say no to a boss like that.
Normally, Tychus preferred to work solo, and only on fast-paying gigs. Asking him to clock in like some corporate desk jockey? You'd have better luck getting him to wait tables in a maid outfit or cut cake in an open-back evening gown.
He rarely gave anyone his full loyalty—but a boss who had guts and shoved money into his pocket? That was the exception.
Augustus seemed to understand exactly what Tychus wanted.
Whenever Tychus thought back to their first meeting, he always found it strange. It was like Augustus had seen straight through him from the very beginning and offered him exactly what he wanted.
And yet, Tychus was certain he'd never seen Augustus before. That kind of one-glance insight didn't exist in real life—only in cheap e-novels or the glorified biographies of so-called great men.
Tychus knew that successful generals and financial titans often hired ghostwriters to pen their autobiographies in old age.
And he was convinced that Augustus would never be one of those forgotten men.
Someday in the far future, someone would write books about him.
And when they did, how would they describe that legendary first meeting between the great pirate Tychus Findlay and Augustus Mengsk?
"I'll get someone to upgrade it eventually," Augustus said as he hammered thick steel stakes through the camo tarp into Meinhoff's hard-packed soil. "Mr. Feek's not great at modifying anything beyond armor and weapons."
The Heaven's Devils who had served under Augustus for a while knew he wouldn't stop until the job was done. Harnack, for example, lacked patience and persistence in most things—but Augustus was the exact opposite.
...
According to the prearranged combat deployment, Augustus' Heaven's Devils special tactics squad proceeded on foot to the designated rally point after concealing their dropship. Two members of Heaven's Devils remained behind with pilot Jack to guard the ship.
This hemisphere of Meinhoff was as barren as the moon. Fierce winds, laced with sand and rubble, relentlessly eroded the heavily weathered rock formations on the surface.
At this latitude, the seasonal changes were negligible. Nights were dry and frigid—fragile skin would often crack from the cold—while the moment the sun rose, temperatures would spike sharply. As such, local architecture prioritized insulation and airtight design.
The original modular prefab structures were soon replaced by stone buildings characteristic of Meinhoff.
Vast, unobstructed plains with a clear view to the horizon were rare here. Instead, towering mountains, low hills, and modest-sized plateaus interspersed with basins and ravines formed the dominant terrain features of the region.
Half a month ago, Augustus' unit had been equipped with the new CMC-300 powered combat suits, which made navigating this complex terrain a breeze. The helmet's HUD display continuously updated information such as elevation, temperature, and air pressure. A slowly rotating 3D topographic map marked friendly forces already landed with green dots.
On Meinhoff, the black-gray armor of Heaven's Devils served as excellent camouflage. From thousands of metres above, Kel-Morian aircraft had little chance of spotting these small, mobile squads.
Augustus was not the first to arrive at the rally point—a Resocialization squad had already been waiting there.
Gathering together in one spot during operations against the Kel-Morian Combine was tantamount to foolishness. Aircraft and missiles could accurately annihilate a massed military unit from several kilometres away. After a brief exchange with the Resocialization unit's commander, Augustus pulled back a safe distance and ordered his troops to spread out, crawling into the depressions and crevices among the rocks.
Warfield, who had long fought side-by-side with Heaven's Devils, did not disembark or come to the front lines in person. His responsibility for overall coordination required him to remain aboard the ship.
Because the commanding officer of the 33rd Ground Assault Division—and several high-ranking officers—had abruptly retired just before this campaign began, officers like Warfield, known for their valor and commendable service records, were promoted rapidly over the span of a single month.
He was now a lieutenant colonel, serving as the executive officer of the Iron Justice, a battlecruiser. Under his command was a newly formed Marine brigade, its troops drawn primarily from the Antiga Prime and Sara systems—outlying worlds on the fringe of the Federation.
—By mid-October of 2488, the course of the Guild Wars had become clear. The Kel-Morian Combine had lost control of its once-vast, arrogant mining empire. The Terran Federation was winning the war.
Kel-Morian offensives across multiple planets had all ended in failure. These campaigns—some spanning several years—had been decisively concluded with victories by the Terran Federation Armed Forces.
Entire divisions of Kel-Morian troops had been wiped out wholesale. The remnants had retreated deep into the Combine's core territory. The Federation had reclaimed nearly all its lost ground, and its ferocious counteroffensives had erased what little dignity the Union government still clung to. Multiple planets, each with populations exceeding one million, had been annihilated by nuclear weapons. Even more mining worlds along the periphery had fallen.
Though the sudden retirement of so many high-ranking officers was shocking, not everyone was displeased. Some aristocratic yet grossly incompetent officers, jealous of their peers' achievements, found petty satisfaction in the shake-up. Others were already scheming to fabricate accolades and seize a bigger share of the spoils.
Following a series of investigations by the Federal Central Security Bureau, the Federal Intelligence Agency headquarters, and the Tarsonis secret police, Arcturus and his followers were able to retire without much trouble.
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