the effort. “This hinge locks to
your shoulder here, stabilizing it. Aim and scatter is controlled
via your suit’s computer. You don’t move the gun itself; its
internal mirror will focus at whatever you target, up to forty
degrees in any direction. Your main job is to just hold the thing
steady. Believe you me, that’s hard enough.”
The
armorer eased the large gun to the floor, then turned it around.
“On
the back you have the recoil modulator, which vents as much energy
behind you as the gun fires out the front. This keeps you from
falling on your ass every time you fire, and that’s just in normal
gravity. Fire this thing in space without the modulator, and it’ll
be the last anyone sees of you.
He
let that sink in, then continued. “As for power, you need far more
than a standard clip’s worth. There’s a plug here for either a
battery belt or a backpack, and the total firing time is limited
only by how much weight you can carry. By the look of this guy,”
he said, nodding at Saul, “we’re talking months.”
This
time, the armorer got his laugh.
“Last
up is this sneaky thing,” he said, picking out a rifle that was
taller than him. “The MX-311d is the very latest in sniper
technology. It has an effective range of up to twenty-two miles,
though I hear tell of men getting twice that. Scatter control is
here, but there isn’t much. Even at its widest setting, the beam
will pass harmlessly through anything closer than five hundred
yards.
“It’s
aimed through this full-face optical scope. There’s a video
option, but at those distances you’d need a feed off someone
closer to the target. This gun takes the same battery clips as the
R-14, but you’ll only get seven shots per.
“And,
as a note to the rest of you, the MX-311d is the most expensive
rifle that the United Forces has ever manufactured. So do us a
favor, gentlemen, and protect your snipers.”
— — —
The
rocket pack had seemed straightforward enough when Mickelson
explained it back on the orbital. The main thruster, gas-driven,
moved the operator in whatever direction his head was pointed. To
turn he used the stabilizers at each corner of the pack, which were
small gravity generators that ran off the suit’s batteries. So
Peter understood the concept, but it was only now, stranded in open
space, that he had to put it into practice.
Peter
pulled up the list of coordinates Mickelson had assigned him, and
the first one appeared as a green dot on his visor map. He tried to
compare the map with what he saw outside, but there was nothing
around him to use for reference. The marker was a random point
inside a vast and empty void.
Peter
rotated himself back and forth with his stabilizers, getting his aim
just right, then fired his rocket. The green dot shot past his
shoulder and disappeared behind him. He spun around and fired the
rocket again, but his angle was wrong and, between that and his
existing momentum, he curved off in a whole new direction. Peter
panicked, flipped himself over, and tapped his thruster again. But
he was only making it worse. The green dot had started thirty yards
away and was now over a thousand yards back.
“In
space,” Mickelson had told them, “even the slightest bit of
thrust will propel you indefinitely.” The only cure was to use to
point yourself in the exact opposite direction and then burn the
exact right amount of fuel to counter your momentum. “You’ll
never figure it out yourself,” the sergeant had said, “so don’t
even try.”
Peter
queried his suit’s computer and was rewarded with two lines—a
red one that indicated the direction he was moving and a white one
that indicated which way he was facing. He rotated himself until the
two lines were parallel and tapped his thruster. The red line
shortened as he slowed. He tapped it two more times, coming to a
standstill.
It
took some fiddling, but Peter got the computer to draw a line
between himself and the green dot.
your shoulder here, stabilizing it. Aim and scatter is controlled
via your suit’s computer. You don’t move the gun itself; its
internal mirror will focus at whatever you target, up to forty
degrees in any direction. Your main job is to just hold the thing
steady. Believe you me, that’s hard enough.”
The
armorer eased the large gun to the floor, then turned it around.
“On
the back you have the recoil modulator, which vents as much energy
behind you as the gun fires out the front. This keeps you from
falling on your ass every time you fire, and that’s just in normal
gravity. Fire this thing in space without the modulator, and it’ll
be the last anyone sees of you.
He
let that sink in, then continued. “As for power, you need far more
than a standard clip’s worth. There’s a plug here for either a
battery belt or a backpack, and the total firing time is limited
only by how much weight you can carry. By the look of this guy,”
he said, nodding at Saul, “we’re talking months.”
This
time, the armorer got his laugh.
“Last
up is this sneaky thing,” he said, picking out a rifle that was
taller than him. “The MX-311d is the very latest in sniper
technology. It has an effective range of up to twenty-two miles,
though I hear tell of men getting twice that. Scatter control is
here, but there isn’t much. Even at its widest setting, the beam
will pass harmlessly through anything closer than five hundred
yards.
“It’s
aimed through this full-face optical scope. There’s a video
option, but at those distances you’d need a feed off someone
closer to the target. This gun takes the same battery clips as the
R-14, but you’ll only get seven shots per.
“And,
as a note to the rest of you, the MX-311d is the most expensive
rifle that the United Forces has ever manufactured. So do us a
favor, gentlemen, and protect your snipers.”
— — —
The
rocket pack had seemed straightforward enough when Mickelson
explained it back on the orbital. The main thruster, gas-driven,
moved the operator in whatever direction his head was pointed. To
turn he used the stabilizers at each corner of the pack, which were
small gravity generators that ran off the suit’s batteries. So
Peter understood the concept, but it was only now, stranded in open
space, that he had to put it into practice.
Peter
pulled up the list of coordinates Mickelson had assigned him, and
the first one appeared as a green dot on his visor map. He tried to
compare the map with what he saw outside, but there was nothing
around him to use for reference. The marker was a random point
inside a vast and empty void.
Peter
rotated himself back and forth with his stabilizers, getting his aim
just right, then fired his rocket. The green dot shot past his
shoulder and disappeared behind him. He spun around and fired the
rocket again, but his angle was wrong and, between that and his
existing momentum, he curved off in a whole new direction. Peter
panicked, flipped himself over, and tapped his thruster again. But
he was only making it worse. The green dot had started thirty yards
away and was now over a thousand yards back.
“In
space,” Mickelson had told them, “even the slightest bit of
thrust will propel you indefinitely.” The only cure was to use to
point yourself in the exact opposite direction and then burn the
exact right amount of fuel to counter your momentum. “You’ll
never figure it out yourself,” the sergeant had said, “so don’t
even try.”
Peter
queried his suit’s computer and was rewarded with two lines—a
red one that indicated the direction he was moving and a white one
that indicated which way he was facing. He rotated himself until the
two lines were parallel and tapped his thruster. The red line
shortened as he slowed. He tapped it two more times, coming to a
standstill.
It
took some fiddling, but Peter got the computer to draw a line
between himself and the green dot.
Similar Books
