"Its not as fun as it looks." I said. "It kind of sucks, actually. You picked a better job, believe me."
"I guess." He said.
"I didnt get your name."
"Timothy Gabbert." He said. "Im a Lance Corporal." He pointed to the back of the line. "Is that Pandoran going with us?"
I turned around. Shayiza was standing ten places back in line, next to First Sergeant Post and two armed security officers. I started to run toward her. One of the officers drew down on my with his weapon, and the other grabbed my restraints, slamming me to the floor. The impact knocked the wind out of my lungs.
"Stand him up." Post said. "Try not to put any holes in him, before the Chimerans get their chance."
"You said she was going to Earth!" I shouted.
"I lied." Post said. "Fact is, old Shay-Shays coming with us. Not all the way to the front, like you are, but close enough where I can keep an eye on both of you."
"Thats not the deal." I said.
"You dont like the deal? FIne. She gets blown out the airlock when we leave airport. I'll give my word on that, and keep it. You've got no room to bargain here, Corporal." His voice turned hard. "I suggest you take your place in line."
The guards walked my forward, and let me go in my place behind the recruit. "DId you know her?" He whispered to me.
"No." I said. "Guess I didnt."
SIX
I watch a lot of movies, whenever I can. Old twentieth and twenty-first century stuff. One thing that amazes me is how much they focused on space travel, when they couldnt do much more than orbit their own planet, and how much they got wrong.
Spaceships in most of these movies are sleek, well designed things with obvious engines, sensor systems, crew stations. Most of them are roomy as a Terran hotel, with comfortable chairs, and soothing beige colors. Almost all of them have what they call "artificial gravity." That always cracks me up. A few real life luxury vehicles have a centrifugal ring installed, but its expensive as hell to do that for anything smaller that a station. The ship I rode out to Chimera on, had none of those amenities, and by design looked like a long rail, with a collection of solar panels at the far end, and a collection of cargo and living pods on the other.
I couldnt tell you anything about it, either way. I spent the month and a half long journey in cryogenic slumber. Another little detail those movies missed, what to do while your racing about the Verse? It was near instant, in those things, travel at something called "warp" or "light-speed" But real FTL- faster than light travel- still took a long time, and passengers couldnt be twiddling their thumbs or beating their dicks while that took place. I say passengers- the Navy refers to us as "packs." And that was the first thing I heard when I woke up, a petty officer yelling out "Packs coming awake!"
That is the only thing I could tell you about whatever ship it was that took us to Chimera; I woke up on it, filled a nearby barf bag with a few zero-g globules of vomit, and stood in line while it docked with the FAB Space Station. I was still wearing my civilian attire, and the restraints the guards had left on me.
The space station had that centrifugal effect, at least on the outer rings, where everyone lived and worked. My legs were wobbly as I stood up in it. Post supported me up, then used a key to remove the shackles.
"No need for this shit, now." He said. "Dont have anywhere to run to. Straight run from here to the armory.
"When did they build all this?" I asked.
"Thats right- you have been gone a few months. The Chimera have gotten good at attacking or bases on the ground." Post snorted. "Lost quite a few POGs, who probably didnt sign on to get shot at, and lost a few doctors and officers with a lot of brass on their collar. Since the Chimera havent demonstrated any real space travel capabilities, we built this station to act as a operating base and field hospital."
"Thats comforting." I said.
"Its saved a few Marine lives." Post said. "Plus it gives the brass a way of sticking their nose into things, without actually putting boots on the ground. So it serves a purpose." To illustrate the point, a general passed us in a dress uniform. I remembered to salute. Following him was a nurse with a stretcher.
"You wont see this shit, anyway." Post said. "Your ass is going to spend every day in the field, running ops." We came to a large metal door, marked with the Terran Marine Corps seal. Post placed his hand on the scanner, and waited while his retina was scanned. The door whirred open with a hiss.
"After you." Post said.
The armory was an entirely automated process. It was safe, or at least we were told it was safe, though marines missing fingers or arms might respond differently. It did its job as far as the military was concerned, outfitting troops in a matter of minutes rather than hours. I took a neutral stance, arms slightly raised outward.
The mechanical limbs came up to me. First a laser scanned my body for exact fit. Then a scalpel sliced off the civilian clothing I had been wearing. An old trick we used to play was telling a new recruit that he had to wear his dress blues into the armory, and having the machines slice them into pieces and dispose of them. As it was, I could care less about any of the things I had been wearing. Cheap and disposable, I had bought the clothing to blend in and disappear amongst colonist, and would not miss it.
The limbs began securing the armor itself. The undermost layer flowed over my skin like a fabric made of ants. nanotechnology in it would transmit to the servo motors of the suit, and allow my movements to be mimicked. It would also allow a degree of cushioning for comfort, and transmit vital signs to the armor systems itself. After that the carapace was attached. The brain of the armor was made of sensors wired into a carbon fiber frame for strength. The individual data packs were spread apart as thinly as possible, so a lucky hit from a Chimera round wouldn't knock out the armors entire functionality. That was something my old Squad Leader described to me; the early model armor had kept all data systems in a backpack attached to the frame. The Chimera quickly learned exactly what to aim for. More than one Marine was made prisoner in his own suit of Power Armor. A victim of poor design, or, more likely, a victim of the corporation. Terra would do anything to cut costs, when it came down to it.
The underlying structure was wired in, with the individual servos and gears. I stood as still as possible when this was going on, letting my limbs be manipulated as the machines deemed necessary. When that was finished the outer shell was put in place. An arm hissed and sparked as the blued steel was welded into place. The outer layer was reactive, coated with a thin layer of special explosive. When an enemy projectile contacted it, the explosion would knock it away harmlessly, in theory, at least. Sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't. The Chimera had a variety of energy weapons that blast and burnt their way through the metal entirely. But it was what it was.
Finally my armor was entirely secure, and a green light glowed in the metal tube. My visor slid halfway down. There was a small O for Oakley in the corner, an ancient Terran brand, and a symbol for luck. A rifle was handed to me, and I picked it up by the pistol grip. The basics of the rifle were the same since Kalishnikov had established the standard for automatic weapons in the mid-twentieth century. The variations on the theme were mostly ones of details: Instead of wood and steel, the weapon was crafted from hardened composites and carbon fiber. Instead of simple bullets, explosive rounds were loaded into the magazines, designed to burst after impact, for maximum damage.
"Begin systems check." The AI said in my helmet, in a soothing female tone. "Targeting check."
I brought the barrel of the weapon up. This was another way rifle technology had advanced over the years. Their were no visible sights on the weapon. Instead, the suit AI calculated the trajectory of each round, based on my grip and where I was pointing the end of the muzzle. A small crosshairs appeared on my visor's HUD, marking where I was aiming at. This was something else my old squad leader had a problem with. When this technology was first introduced. it was only reliable to maybe thirty meters. But thin
gs had changed since them. A zoom feature had been added, and my last tour I had hit a target at four hundred meters. I let the system run through its checks. The life support kicked in, and cool air blew over my skin, drying my sweat. Finally the far door opened, and I walked over to the far hanger, waiting to board the Stormraven.
SEVEN
The Stormraven was a space-to-ground vehicle, and took a lot of stress. It also frequently saw combat, and wasnt built for any frills. The cargo bay where we rode had exposed wiring, and handholds where we were to lock on during the drop.
The first sergeant took his place at the front, next to the gunner and crew chief. He gave a quick comm channel check to each Marine, and then the order to lock in. The order overrode my command of the systems, my armor locked into place, and electromagnets activated on my hands and my boots, strapping me down. There were pluses and minuses to this condition. On the plus side, planetfall could be rough, especially if we took fire. A scared recruit could do a lot of damage if he started to flail around like crazy. Might even breach the hull, and then we all die on atmospheric entry. On the other hand, if we took fire and the ship was going down, we were all going down with it, looked in steel coffins. The first sergeant could override and let us loose, but that if he had already bought it, that was that. I settled down as much as I could.
I was half facing the window and could see Chimera below us. It was an ugly planet. A ball of bright yellow and black. There was nothing on it, not oceans or valuable minerals. Yet the Chimeran would die for it, or kill for it. And we would kill and die for it back.
"Computer." I said, bringing up the AI. "Overide code 21Q-Y7E." I was trying an old trick.
The streaming radio directory popped up in my HUD. I smiled. It was the little things, that made it bearable, at times.
"Indie Rock hits of the early twentieth century." I said. The album art for a band called the Black Keys popped up. It was one of my favorites, with heavy guitar and drums. The singer sang
Let me be your
Everlasting light
As the gunship fell from the station, into the atmosphere, and to the planet. I listened to music, and tried to think of nothing.
We were not fired upon on entry. That part of my deployment, at least, had gone well enough. The Stormraven approached FAB Rhino and lowered itself vertically to the landing pad. The Armor unlocked, and I stretched myself out before the cargo door opened.
"Listen up." The First Sergeant said, on the comm. "Im sending your AI GPS coordinates to roundezvous with your squads. For those of you that dont know what that means, follow the glowing breadcrumbs."
The trail popped up on the ground in front of me, glowing blue. I walked off following it. A Marine came behind me, weaving back and forth in his Power Armor.
"Corporal Sawyer?" He said, through the comm. His visor was down, so I couldn't see his face.
I didn't have to. The HUD popped up his identification: GABERT, E-3 TUMC.
"Thats a nice outfit." I told him. "I didn't know they issued that for Motor T."
"I think there was some kind of mix-up." The kid said. "First Sargeant made me get in the armory. I told him my MOS, and he just laughed and shoved me through the door. Do you think I'll get in trouble?"
I had an idea that he was already in more trouble than he knew, but I kept that to myself. "Should be fine." I overrode his Armor systems, and brought up his GPS trail. "There you go, the breadcrumbs should be up."
"Thanks, Corporal." He said.
When I saw the GPS, I knew he was fucked. His co-ordinates were the same as mine. BATTLE COMPANY, THIRD SQUAD.
The grunts were in a large hanger at the edge of the FAB. In times past, infantry would have been kept in tents, or in barracks, but Armored Infantry brought about its own set of demands. We had to have access to Maintenance crews, for one thing, and most Crew Chiefs demanded having a well-lit area to work in. It came down to money. The suits we were wearing were worth more than our lives.
The rest of the squad was joking and smoking. A few of them were playing cards. They looked much the same as I had left them. Chief looked up at me. "Well, shit." He said. "If it isnt this motherfucker." the display flickered PETERS, E-4 (SPC)
"They made you squad leader?" I asked.
"Not no more." He said. "Im just a specialist, dog. Your the one with two stripes up, Corporal sir."
Next to him I saw MCGOVERN, E-2. "They busted you down, Bill?" I said.
"Its all politics." He said. "I might have gotten drunk off some hooch pooch, and might have taken the CO's rhino out for a joyride."
"Sounds like politics." I said.
"What about you, Sawyer?" asked HUNTER, E-3. "Last I heard you were getting out and headed to farm dirt with that piece of ass you found off the net."
"She probably turned out to be three hundred pounds." Bill said.
"With a dick." Peters added. "Whose the fucking boot?"
Gabbert shifted from foot to foot. "Hey boot." Peters said. "Im talking to you."
"Lance Corporal Gabbert." the kid said. "I'm in Motor transportation."
Bill groaned. "Aw, fuck." He said. "Not another one."
"What is it?" Gabbert said.
"They fucked you, kid." Peters said. "They changed your MOS, and made your ass a grunt. Infantry supplemental."
"They can do that?" Gabbert said.
"Hell yeah, they can." Bill said. "Theyve been sended us fucked up little boot POGs like you for the last couple months. Seems like they cant get enough new Grunts out here, to make up for all the ones that get sent home in bags."
"If it makes you feel any better, they fucked us too." Peters said. "Cause I can see by the way you walk in that thing, you have no clue how to operate a suit of Mark IV Power Armor."
I changed the GPS beacon on Gabberts HUD. "Go to the ammo dump, and get us a few crates of Gauss ammo." I said. "Double time." The kid ran off.
"What was that all about?" Bill asked.
"You werent going to let up." I said. "And I didnt feel like seeing that kid cry."
"Hes meat anyway." Hunter said. "Shits gotten rough since you left. Real rough. The Chimeras took the western settlement."
That was bad news. The western settlement had been our stronghold the last time I had been here. It had actual armor and walls. The colonist that had built it had shown a degree of foresight, before the Chimera slaughtered them. It would take a regiment to take it back.
"Thats not good." I said.
"Theyve been adapting." Peters said. "All new kinds of the freaks. Some real big, nasty ones."
"What about the political situation?" I asked. "How long are we going to stay out here?"
Bill laughed. "Fuck, dude. You've been out in the world. You had time to see what they were saying about us."
"Were pretty much fucked on that angle too." Hunter said. "The old president didnt pull us out, so the new one doesnt want to take that risk. Plus, with an all- volunteer military, theres no draft, so no rich mans kid accidentally gets sent into this shithole."
I lowered my eyes. "I actually didnt see to much on the news about this."
Bill shook his head. "And they say Terra is at war."
Terra aint at war." Peters said. "Marines are at war. Terra is out shopping on the net."
Gabbert returned with the ammo. Peters made him do push-ups, for leaving his rifle. I didnt stop him. It would help familiarize him with the power armor.
EIGHT
I'm going to bore you with a little history lesson. It'll kind of help you understand things better. It all starts in the early twenty-first century.
In those olden days, the American Empire had absolute control of the skies, with the worlds finest air force. The also had a navy that patrolled the world, in every sea. They just ran into one little snag whenever they fought a war.
After they had bombed a country into near-rubble, they had to send ground troops in to secure it. There was no real way to avoid this. And the ground troops could be kill
ed by one little bullet, from one AK-47, the worlds most prolific weapon of war. This created another problem, in itself.
Like the Terra corporation, the wars America fought were often for economic or political reasons. They managed to stay fairly popular through a clever ruse known as "supporting our troops", an idealization of the soldiers and Marines in the military. This hit on one little snag: When one of them died, it blew a hole in a government-backed fantasy. A husband, father, or son, did not come home. And the ragtag insurgents America fought in these wars found that fact and exploited it thuroughly. The realization came about: They did not need to overcome the Americans full strength, that was beyond their means. All they had to do, was kill enough troops, one by one, until the voting public lost its appetite for battle, and had an unfavorable reaction to the ongoing conflict in the polls.
This managed to frustrate several politicains and many generals. For the first time in history, the life of the foot soldier mattered, partially because they had made it that way. They began an arms race on the ground. Increasing body armor by using kevlar plates was the first step. This led to a secondary problem. There was only so much weight a troop could handle. Knee and back injuries became common, and soldiers moved sluggishly in situations where their unhampered enemies, wearing nothing but robes and sandals, could sprint.
It all started with a set of mechanical leg braces. The braces were designed to help an individual soldier carry a two hundred fifty pound pack up a steep mountain in afghanistan. Some unknown Marine mechanic had the spark of genius of taking the kevlar plates out of his flak jacket, and welding a series of them to the leg supports on the back and torso. Even then, it might not have caught fire, but for a video.
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