Read Online Undying Mercenaries 2: Dust World by B. V. Larson - Free Book Online

squad I’d been assigned to for training was made up of experts. They snapped each component into place with practiced precision. It seemed to me that all the most muscular guys in the cohort were there.
    Veteran Harris never looked at the rest of the weaponeers. He was watching me. He had his hands on his hips staring at my hands as I worked with my weapon, waiting for me to make the slightest mistake.
    “No, no, no!” he shouted a moment later as I pushed a cartridge into the base of the weapon. “You have to slap it in, boy. It won’t lock right if you just toy with it!”
    I slapped, and apparently I did that wrong too, because he ripped it out of my hands and whacked the cartridge with a big hand. He tossed the weapon back to me . I caught it, but not without staggering.
    He glared. “You’re hopeless. I’m telling Graves this was a big mistake. He should keep you with the light troops, where at least you know what the hell you’re doing.”
    “Sorry Vet,” I said. “I don’t know why I didn’t get assigned to heavy weapons training during shore leave.”
    Harris shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Too expensive.”
    I thought about it and nodded. We weren’t like a national standing army, we were mercenaries. Our treasury was based on active contracts not taxpayer dollars coming from some borrowed government pot. An active duty legionnaire was paid about triple what a man got while sitting on his hands at home. That’s why they didn’t like to have us muster back in until it was go-time—meaning they had a new contract.
    “That’s why you didn’t put us through boot camp the first time out, right? Cheaper to do it on the flight to the target world, and then throw us into the fight. After dying a few times, we figured out how to be proper soldiers.”
    Harris shrugged. “That’s about the size of it. But you’re failing at weaponeer school. You don’t know how to handle your suit or your weapon. What’s worse, we won’t have time to properly train you on artillery systems at all.”
    I was about to apologize again when another broad-looking fellow stepped up. It was none other than Specialist Sargon. He’d been something of a big-brother to me on my first campaign. By that I mean he’d bullied and abused me but taught me a few critical details almost by accident.
    “Harris is right,” he said, looking me up and down. “That kit isn’t on right. Your exo-systems are working overtime hindering your arm-motions. You can’t work against your suit, you have to make it work for you.”
    Harris eyed Sargon. “Specialist,” he said. “This training is just a refresher for you. Take over coaching McGill.”
    Sargon looked at him in surprise. “Did I just step in something?”
    “That’s right,” Harris said. “Carry on.”
    He left, clumping away in his armor. I thought I heard a rumbling chuckle as he went. Harris was an excellent non-com, but he worked hard to avoid work.
    Sargon looked at me and shook his head. He heaved a sigh and reached out with thick, gloved fingers. He grabbed my shoulders first and began yanking on straps and placing my armor into a new configuration.
    “That’s not feeling right,” I complained.
    “Pulling the hairs out of your armpits, isn’t it?” Sargon asked with a grin.
    “Yeah, I think so.”
    “Good. That’s just where you want it. You’ll get some callouses up there, but you have to have the epaulettes riding high and tight. They’ll spread the weight over your back where you want it.”
    I nodded, wincing as he screwed around with more settings and straps. I felt like I was wearing a corset.
    “You’ll get used to it. I recommend you shave around the tight areas and apply a thick coating of powder.”
    I wasn’t used to this kind of thing—tight clothing. I’d been wearing light weight smart-cloth all my life. It always fit perfectly and adjusted itself if it didn’t.
    “Now,” Sargon said. “Fully extend your arms and clap