Tychus could already tell what kind of person this sergeant was—definitely not someone to be trifled with. Young, sharp, and no-nonsense, he clearly didn't tolerate the slightest impropriety. He was nothing like those aging sergeants on Raydin III who had grown senile from years of idling in rear positions. Fooling Augustus was going to be a tall order.
In Tychus's experience, officers like him—young and ambitious—were typically more concerned with promotions than with money or women.
Tychus didn't quite understand how Augustus could see through him from the very first encounter, but that didn't really matter.
What bothered him far more was that Augustus's definition of 'profiteering' didn't seem to work in his favor. If Augustus truly was a man of integrity, someone who strictly adhered to Marine Corps regulations—then that would be a real pain in the ass.
This kind of officer might be a shining example of loyalty and excellence for the Corps and his subordinates, but Tychus had no interest in serving under such a man.
Contrary to what Augustus claimed, Tychus saw himself as a 'selfless and kindhearted man, a loyal soldier of the Federation', whose ideals and ambitions were 'so noble and sacred they couldn't even be put into words'.
Tychus was engaged in a great and noble cause: robbing the rich to feed the poor.
Robbing the wealth of the Federation government and the Marine Corps… and feeding the poorest man in the entire galaxy—himself.
Nothing else made Tychus's heavy heart race more than money, more money, and the delightful jingle of coins in his purse.
To that end, he had, more than once, stolen supplies from the Federation. By colluding with logistics officers, he sold truckloads of weapons and armor seized from stockpiles to pirates, interstellar militias, and even the Kel-Morian forces—then erased the capture records.
After all, if no one knew a certain batch of supplies had ever been seized… then it simply didn't exist. And if this ever came to light, Tychus would be executed a hundred times over.
Aside from that, he hadn't really done anything too outrageous. He never harmed civilians—because they didn't have much money anyway. He loved beautiful women but never seduced respectable housewives, only spending his money in legal bars and with registered professionals.
Now, however, Tychus's great enterprise was facing a serious challenge.
He was just a private—a low-ranking grunt. If his new squad leader turned out to be cut from the same cloth as him, things would be fine. Sure, he'd have to share the profits with more people, but he'd at least have a shield.
As long as the war kept going, Tychus would always find a way to make a score. Years of operations had granted him an extensive network of intel and clients. As long as he had goods to move, he could name his price. No matter where it came from—someone out there would be willing to buy.
"Under my command, you won't be treated unfairly." After the initial intimidation, Augustus's tone eased up a bit—though he still didn't bother putting on a friendly face. "You're a big guy, and we could use someone like you. Come with me to move some gear. After that, go pick up your own equipment. We don't pamper rich kids or pampered princesses here. We're a unit—no one gets special treatment."
"Harnack! Pick up your damn cigarette butt and clean this area. There are already enough bastards in this squad—I don't need more trouble."
"Aww, what's the big deal. I'm going right now, sweet Amy."
"Hm? Why are you pulling me along?"
"Finders keepers!"
...
On July 18, snow had been falling continuously from the early morning until dusk.
On the road inside Fort Howe that led to the landing platform, the snow had piled up to a depth of 20 centimeters. Augustus, dressed in a thick cold-weather suit, was driving a snowplow to clear the way. In the glow of the vehicle's headlights, the fluttering snowflakes shimmered and blurred.
At this moment, the snowfall gradually was easing, and only a few snowplows operated by soldiers from Augustus's squad were still working the road. The streetlights on both sides had already turned on, casting a dazzling, blinding white glow across the pure snowy world.
Augustus's snowplow moved slowly along the road. Inside the cabin, a high-precision wooden retro-style phonograph—just shipped last week from Styrling on Korhal IV—was playing a smooth jazz tune. Next to the dashboard, a cup of steaming coffee gave off a comforting warmth.
Just another slow, ordinary day, Augustus thought. Working hard in the fortress, slacking off here and there... but no clouds of war, no killing, no comrades dying beside me.
"Praise peace!"
With that thought, Augustus lifted his coffee, took a small sip, and immediately felt a wave of warmth wash over him. The caffeine gave him a jolt of energy.
Suddenly, something caught his eye—two wedge-shaped snowplows were speeding along ahead on his left. In the lead vehicle, two boys with red and blond hair were bobbing around in the driver and passenger seats. Even with the snow still falling, their windows were wide open, and the blaring rock music assaulted Augustus's ears.
"Harnack and Josephine are two bad boys—loud and rowdy, but the girls still love them!" they sang at the top of their lungs, laughing all the while.
Just as Augustus was about to switch on the radio speaker to give them a piece of his mind, Harnack's snowplow roared past him. The snow chute on its left side launched a flurry of smashed snow chunks directly onto Augustus's window.
His good mood took a noticeable hit.
"Speed up! Woohoo!" came Raynor's voice. "I'm a man of the wind!"
Seconds later, another, even larger snowplow rumbled past him, flinging an even greater spray of snow onto Augustus's windshield, forcing him to switch on the wipers.
The coffee in his hand splashed onto his white windbreaker—his frustration levels were now rapidly climbing.
"Hey! Little wolf cub of the Mengsk family, mind giving me a lift?"
Augustus rolled down the window and looked toward the voice. About 100 meters ahead, a man in a silver-gray windproof coat with a long-brimmed hood was waving at him.
Augustus slowly drove over and came to a stop. He opened the passenger door. "Captain, I heard you're getting promoted soon?"
Company One's commander, Warfield, gripped the ladder and climbed up step by step into the cab, settling comfortably into the passenger seat.
"Soon enough, soon enough. Got any coffee, kid?"
"Just some instant stuff—you'll have to make it yourself." Augustus turned the wheel, preparing to change direction. "Where you headed? I was just about to head back."
"Command center at Fort Howe. You know the deal. I just flew back from Oakwood after giving a report, and before I could even get my feet under me, that chameleon Vanderspool was already demanding to see me."
Warfield rummaged through the storage box behind his seat for a cup and thermos.
"He's not our superior," Augustus muttered, turning the vehicle back in the direction he'd come from.
Lieutenant Colonel Javier Vanderspool was the acting commander at Fort Howe. Technically, all soldiers and personnel within the fortress—including the 4th Battalion of the 2nd Marine Regiment—were under his authority. But as Augustus had pointed out, Warfield's company wasn't supposed to fall under his command.
"I couldn't agree with you more," Warfield chuckled, focusing entirely on the task of making coffee inside a moving snowplow. "But like I told you last time—Vanderspool always wants to piss on us from above. I can't stand that pretentious bastard. Sitting safe and cozy in an ironclad fortress, barely fought a proper battle, yet struts around like he owns the place—flashing his rank like it means something."
"Yesterday, he went out of his way to visit the 4th Brigade's command post at Hobor Pass," Warfield said. "He claimed Fort Howe was poorly defended on the inside, so during the time that Company One is stationed at the fortress, it must temporarily fall under his command. I'm sure he called me over just to flaunt it."
"I don't even have to guess how that turned out," Augustus said with a light chuckle.
"In short, we're in deep trouble," Warfield grunted. "Just wait—once I'm standing in front of Vanderspool, that monkey's bound to jump around in our faces."
"Didn't you just call him a chameleon?" Augustus asked.
"Then he's a color-changing monkey," Warfield replied, taking a sip of his scalding coffee. "I don't usually give people nicknames, but Vanderspool is the exception."
"We all know the truth. Even in the Federal Marine Corps, many soldiers have already been corrupted by money and power—lining their pockets and playing political games. There's no shortage of scum like that."
He went on, "These guys hole up in the rear, and promotions are harder to come by than on the front lines. So, they start looking elsewhere—like figuring out how to use their authority to make life cushier and more comfortable."
"Vanderspool's always hidden it well, but I'd bet anything his assets far exceed what he should be earning. Being acting lieutenant colonel of Fort Howe—that's a cushy gig."
"Let's just treat him like a clown in a circus," Augustus said with a grin.
"Thinking of him that way makes me feel a lot better," Warfield nodded. Then he glanced at his watch. "Heh, we'd better get moving. Clown Vanderspool expects me at the command center in under ten minutes."
Augustus's snowplow began to speed up, quickly catching up to Harnack, Raynor, and the others ahead. Then, with even greater force, it flung snow right into their faces. Harnack and Josephine, still driving with the windows down, were instantly soaked and chilled to the bone. Their cheerful singing came to an abrupt end.
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