hours, his combat suit
locked as tight as an iron maiden. Mickelson had led the rest of the
platoon through their maneuvers, loaded them into the shuttle, and
left without a word. Peter’s fear had turned to anger, and as time
wore on, to despair.
“How
do you feel, recruit?” Mickelson said over a closed channel. Peter
felt a flood of relief.
“Better,”
he replied.
“Better?”
the sergeant barked.
“Better,
sir.”
“You
get any shut-eye?”
“No,
sir.”
“Right,”
Mickelson said. Peter’s suit relaxed as his artificial muscles
returned to his control. He stretched, his own muscles bruised and
stiff, and looked around. The sky was empty in all directions; he
was completely alone. “Next time you’ll have muscle relaxers,”
the sergeant continued. “I hadn’t figured you’d be out here so
long.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“But
as long as you are out here, you might as well learn how to
use your rocket pack. I’m uploading some coordinates to your
computer. Let’s say…seventeen. You get yourself to each of them,
and then I’ll come pick you up. Sound good?”
“Yes,
sir,” Peter said, though nothing he could think of sounded worse.
“I
don’t expect you’ll use more than half your fuel.”
“Yes,
sir,” Peter repeated, and then added, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
Mickelson snapped.
“I
wanted to…to thank you, sir. For helping me.”
“Carry
on, recruit,” Mickelson said gruffly.
— — —
Amber
arrived at the town square just before one in the afternoon. The
line to the recruiting table had grown sedate, the men’s
enthusiasm withered by the harsh sun.
She
walked down the line swinging a small paper bag, pausing to chat
with the boys she knew, who obliged her with smiles and jokes. Then
she saw Peter and stopped. For a second, it seemed like she was
going to cry, but her face grew hard. She tossed the bag at him and
walked away.
Peter
started after her, but she ignored him. He wanted to chase her, but
anything he said now would only make it worse. He watched her go and
returned to his place in line.
The
crowd, which had fallen silent, burst into nervous chatter. Someone
picked the paper bag off the ground, dusted it, and handed it to
Peter. Inside were a sandwich and a note, “For my brave soldier.”
— — —
“The
general infantry rifle is, as the name implies, an all-purpose
weapon.” The armorer held a gun that, at a glance, could have been
any rifle ever carried by a marine in the history of warfare. The
basic design hadn’t changed because neither had the men who used
them. What had changed, however, was the technology inside. This gun
fired tachyon rays instead of bullets; a two-inch glass lens capped
its barrel.
“Model
R-14,” the armorer continued, “has an effective range of zero to
seven hundred yards. This slider is the scatter control, used to
focus or widen the beam. You want the beam to be six inches wide
when it strikes the target. Pull the slider back to expand it for
close combat, push it out for long range.
“A
standard battery clip slides in here, providing thirty seconds of
power. Click that off in standard quarter-second bursts or hold the
trigger for continuous fire. You sight by eye, using these two marks
on the barrel, or through the video link to your visor. Use the
video when firing around corners, from behind barriers, or over your
back as you flee from the enemy. You won’t have much luck with
that, though,” the armorer chuckled. “The Riel can run a lot
faster than you.”
The
armorer waited for a laugh, then grunted when none came. He swapped
weapons, picking out the largest on the table. It looked like a boxy
missile with a crystal ball jammed onto the tip.
“This
sweet monster is for you heavy-weaponry types. It’s a tachyon
weapon, same as the R-14, but you might as well compare a bear to a
muskrat.
“You
hold it as such,” he said. He balanced it on his shoulders, his
artificial muscles whining from
locked as tight as an iron maiden. Mickelson had led the rest of the
platoon through their maneuvers, loaded them into the shuttle, and
left without a word. Peter’s fear had turned to anger, and as time
wore on, to despair.
“How
do you feel, recruit?” Mickelson said over a closed channel. Peter
felt a flood of relief.
“Better,”
he replied.
“Better?”
the sergeant barked.
“Better,
sir.”
“You
get any shut-eye?”
“No,
sir.”
“Right,”
Mickelson said. Peter’s suit relaxed as his artificial muscles
returned to his control. He stretched, his own muscles bruised and
stiff, and looked around. The sky was empty in all directions; he
was completely alone. “Next time you’ll have muscle relaxers,”
the sergeant continued. “I hadn’t figured you’d be out here so
long.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“But
as long as you are out here, you might as well learn how to
use your rocket pack. I’m uploading some coordinates to your
computer. Let’s say…seventeen. You get yourself to each of them,
and then I’ll come pick you up. Sound good?”
“Yes,
sir,” Peter said, though nothing he could think of sounded worse.
“I
don’t expect you’ll use more than half your fuel.”
“Yes,
sir,” Peter repeated, and then added, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
Mickelson snapped.
“I
wanted to…to thank you, sir. For helping me.”
“Carry
on, recruit,” Mickelson said gruffly.
— — —
Amber
arrived at the town square just before one in the afternoon. The
line to the recruiting table had grown sedate, the men’s
enthusiasm withered by the harsh sun.
She
walked down the line swinging a small paper bag, pausing to chat
with the boys she knew, who obliged her with smiles and jokes. Then
she saw Peter and stopped. For a second, it seemed like she was
going to cry, but her face grew hard. She tossed the bag at him and
walked away.
Peter
started after her, but she ignored him. He wanted to chase her, but
anything he said now would only make it worse. He watched her go and
returned to his place in line.
The
crowd, which had fallen silent, burst into nervous chatter. Someone
picked the paper bag off the ground, dusted it, and handed it to
Peter. Inside were a sandwich and a note, “For my brave soldier.”
— — —
“The
general infantry rifle is, as the name implies, an all-purpose
weapon.” The armorer held a gun that, at a glance, could have been
any rifle ever carried by a marine in the history of warfare. The
basic design hadn’t changed because neither had the men who used
them. What had changed, however, was the technology inside. This gun
fired tachyon rays instead of bullets; a two-inch glass lens capped
its barrel.
“Model
R-14,” the armorer continued, “has an effective range of zero to
seven hundred yards. This slider is the scatter control, used to
focus or widen the beam. You want the beam to be six inches wide
when it strikes the target. Pull the slider back to expand it for
close combat, push it out for long range.
“A
standard battery clip slides in here, providing thirty seconds of
power. Click that off in standard quarter-second bursts or hold the
trigger for continuous fire. You sight by eye, using these two marks
on the barrel, or through the video link to your visor. Use the
video when firing around corners, from behind barriers, or over your
back as you flee from the enemy. You won’t have much luck with
that, though,” the armorer chuckled. “The Riel can run a lot
faster than you.”
The
armorer waited for a laugh, then grunted when none came. He swapped
weapons, picking out the largest on the table. It looked like a boxy
missile with a crystal ball jammed onto the tip.
“This
sweet monster is for you heavy-weaponry types. It’s a tachyon
weapon, same as the R-14, but you might as well compare a bear to a
muskrat.
“You
hold it as such,” he said. He balanced it on his shoulders, his
artificial muscles whining from
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