The files opened up in his mind as he lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. They would be learning how to use the Mark-IV Hammer-class Powered Combat Suit, which was – according to the briefing notes – a formidable weapon of war. Martin watched as a handful of men in suits tore through old-style tanks – a scene from the attack on Tehran, 2045 – with ease, suffering absolutely no casualties at all. But the suits weren't invulnerable. The Galactics had plenty of weapons that could be turned against them, ripping through the combat armour as though it were made of paper.
He opened his eyes as the files came to an end, then activated a sleep program in his implants. Moments later – or at least it felt like moments later – he heard the alarm, yanking them out of sleep. He jumped off the bunk, dressed at a speed he would have considered impossible five months ago, then ran outside ... and stopped, dead. A line of armoured combat suits was standing in front of them, weapons levelled at the barracks ...
“Get into line,” Grison snapped. “What are you waiting for, Recruit Douglas?”
Martin felt his cheeks heat as he fell into line behind the other recruits. The first week had been an endless series of embarrassments, as recruits had found themselves forgetting various items of clothing as they’d tried frantically to dress themselves and get out onto the line before the sergeants started handing out demerits. Martin had forgotten a sock, or a shirt ... there had even been a recruit who’d panicked and run out wearing nothing, apart from his hat. Grison had been very sarcastic that day.
“These are your new toys,” Grison said, when he’d finished the inspection and handed out a handful of demerits. “You have all read the briefing notes, I assume? You will be aware that the suits magnify every movement you make? Good! You will be careful, won’t you?”
Martin swallowed. Grison sometimes warned them of potential mistakes, but he also allowed them to make others on their own, pointing out that it was the only way to learn. Martin had lost count of the number of times he’d ‘died’ on exercises, shot with a training laser, when he’d made a careless mistake. There was more to combat than charging at the enemy, screaming curses into the air; the movies he’d watched, down on Earth, had been more than a little unrealistic. The Drill Sergeants had even forced them to play out movie-like scenarios, just to learn how completely unrealistic they were – or get killed trying to emulate some of the movie heroes.
“When you get into the suits, do not move until I give the order,” Grison added. “Step forward, claim your suit, and open the hatch at the back, then climb inside.”
Martin obeyed. Up close, the suit was thoroughly intimidating. It bristled with weapons and smelt faintly of blood. He shuddered, then used his implants to send the open command to the suit’s processors. There was a dull hiss as the hatch at the back opened, revealing a space just barely large enough for the human body. He hesitated, feeling claustrophobic for the first time in his life, then scrambled up and lowered his legs into the suit. Moments later, the suit closed in around him, cutting off the light. Martin almost panicked, then activated his implants again. The outside world sprang to life inside his mind.
“Connection established,” a voice stated. “Combat interface online.”
There was a dull crash from outside as one of the suits moved, then fell over. Martin heard Sergeant Grison screaming at the suit’s occupant, who had ignored the command to remain still, then turned his attention to the suit itself. The control programs reminded him of some of the teleoperated systems they’d been forced to use in their first training sessions; now, he understood why they'd been forced to go through it, even though it had seemed useless. It would have been a great deal harder to control the suit without that experience.
“All suits,” Grison said. “Take one step forward.”
Martin obeyed ... and toppled over, hitting the ground. The feedback wasn't bad enough to stun him – he’d automatically thrust his hands forward to break his fall – but it told him just how closely the suit was merged to his mind. He pushed himself off the ground ... and flipped over backwards. There was no way he was accustomed to having so much strength at his command. He glanced from side to side and saw the other Earth-born recruits having problems, although the Solar Union citizens seemed to have no such issues. They’d been using biofeedback systems since they’d been old enough to accept implants.
He felt a stab of envy, then slowly forced himself to sit upright, then stand up again. The suit responded, but every motion was backed with so much strength it was alarmingly easy to lose control and fall over, as if a child had suddenly become a man. On impulse, he flexed his legs and jumped upwards ... and found himself shooting into the air. Gravity reasserted itself moments later, dragging him back down. He landed badly enough to send pain shooting up and down his legs.
“Not too bad, for a first try,” Grison said.
Martin choked down a word he knew would earn him more demerits. Not bad? None of them had managed to take a step forward without falling over like a load of drunken idiots. Even the asteroid-born had had problems. But ... he took a step forward, very carefully. This time, he managed to stay upright long enough to take a second step, then a third. It was hard, so hard, but the more he did it, the easier it seemed.
“Just like driving a car,” Jones said, loudly. “We can do it, eventually.”
Grison gave him an evil grin. “Just you wait until you’re managing weapons as well as running,” he said. “And, speaking of weapons ...”
He nodded to one of the other Drill Sergeants, who produced twelve packets of eggs. As Martin watched in disbelief, she put a packet in front of each armoured recruit, then stepped backwards hastily. Martin didn't blame her. The slightest movement inside the suit, voluntary or involuntary, would be magnified a hundred-fold by the armoured muscles, leading to disaster if he coughed at the wrong moment. There was no way he would trust himself with weapons until he knew how to drive the suit safety.
“To get your driving licence,” Grison said, shooting Jones another look, “you have to pick up one of the eggs, safely.”
Martin bent over, reached for the eggs ... and smashed them with a single touch. Groans and curses over the communications network told him that everyone else had had the same problem, making them all failures. Grison walked from person to person, looking down at the packets of eggs and shaking his head mournfully. None of them, it seemed, had even managed to save a single egg, let alone pick it up.
“What a waste of good eggs,” he observed, archly. “But you will master it, one day.”
He turned and started to march towards the training field. “Follow me.”
Martin would have enjoyed the next few hours if they hadn't been so frustrating. The more he played with the suit, the more he thought he understood it, only to lose his certainty as something else happened and he lost control again. He even tried to shake hands with another recruit, only to find himself thrown over and slammed into the ground. Others crashed into one another, laughing as they bounced off and squelched through the mud. The Sergeant moved from recruit to recruit, offering pieces of advice merged with a droll awareness that learning how to handle the suits was something that could only be done through experience. By the time they were finally ordered back to the barracks, Martin was feeling a dull ache at the back of his temple. It was clear that mastering the suits was going to take weeks.
“We will be training with the suits every second day,” Grison informed them, as they lined up in front of the barracks. “The other days, I’m afraid, will be spent continuing with our unarmoured practice. You will have to learn the difference between fighting in an armoured suit and fighting without it.”
At first, Martin thought he was joking ... and then he realised there was something deadly serious behind it. He’d forgotten, to some extent, that he was actually wearing the suit. It had merged so completely with him that he might as well have been the suit. And something he could do in a suit – rushing across a field while the enemy
fired machine guns at him – would get him killed in an instant if he tried it without a suit. The Solar Union BDUs had some bullet-resistance woven into them, he’d been told, but bullets still hurt.
I could die if I did the wrong thing, he thought, numbly. He'd thought he was used to the concept of death, but hope – real hope – had proved him wrong. And so could all of us.
“Now,” Grison said. “Get out of your suits.”
That, Martin discovered, was harder than it seemed. It took him a long time – and some prompting from the Sergeant – to work out where to put his hands as he scrambled out of the suit and down to the ground. Two others were less lucky, losing their grip and plummeting backwards to hit the ground, yelping in pain at the sudden shock. Grison laughed, helped them to their feet, then pointed the recruits towards the mess. Martin was surprised by just how hungry he was, after several hours in the suits. But then, they hadn't had anything to eat in the morning.
“You have five more months of training to go,” Grison informed them, as they gratefully ate as fast as they could. “By then, you will be expected to be completely proficient with a suit – and ready to handle anything, from an enemy shooting at you to a child wanting to ride on your shoulders. You are not to try the latter until you are a qualified suit operator. Do you understand me?”
Martin blanched. He could tear a child – or an adult – apart, entirely by accident. The thought was terrifying. He didn’t want to kill someone who merely wanted to have fun ...
I have to write Yolanda about this, he thought. The last he’d heard, she was studying for her flight qualification. But neither of them had had time to meet up since starting the next phase of their training. She’d be impressed ... and jealous.
Chapter Thirteen
The Provisional Russian Government has been warned, in the strongest possible terms, that further attempts to bar emigration to the Solar Union will result in harsh reprisals. Speaking in front of the Solar Congress, President Ross reaffirmed the Solar Union’s determination to provide a home for all those willing to live by the solar creed...
-Solar News Network, Year 52
“Two years,” Julian said, slowly.
“So it would seem,” Kevin said. “Two years for the fleet to arrive, then set out for Earth.”
He scowled. It was possible Ando was wrong – or that something would impede the fleet’s progress as it made its way to Varnar – but he dared not assume anything of the sort. The worst case scenario would see two hundred Tokomak battleships approaching Earth, demanding immediate unconditional surrender. And they would have the firepower to crush the Solar Union, if it came down to a straight fight. Mongo would need to be informed, as quickly as possible, before it was too late.
And then ... what? Kevin asked himself. Can we stop that much firepower from doing whatever the hell it wants?
“Store the information in the secure compartment,” he ordered, instead. “We will depart in two days, as planned.”
“After your date,” Julian said, dryly. “Be careful, sir.”
“I’ve carried out more covert operations than you,” Kevin said. It was true, although only if one counted covert operations on Earth as well as alien worlds. “And besides, you never know what it might lead to.”
“Her bedroom,” Julian said. “Good luck, sir.”
The next two days passed quickly. Kevin spent most of them exploring the planet with the rest of the team, trying to understand just how it worked. The Varnar had created an environment that was surprisingly multicultural, but – at the same time – forced the large non-Varnar communities to live in ghettos of their own. It was almost as if the Varnar didn't want to allow too much alien influence into their society, although Kevin had a feeling they were wasting their time. Earth was far more isolated than Varnar and quite a bit of alien influence had entered the cultural gestalt. By the time he was due to meet Sally, he thought he knew more about just how the planet worked. But he also knew better than to take it for granted.
“I’ve booked us a table at a Pan-Gal,” she said, when he reached her apartment. It was definitely a multiracial complex, designed to give members of almost every known race a place that suited their environmental needs. “It won’t be cheap, I’m afraid, but Ando has his contacts.”
Kevin nodded as he took her hand. Sally was wearing a long yellow dress that set her dark hair off nicely, hinting at her curves rather than crudely revealing them. She looked surprisingly attractive, although he was probably the only person for miles who could appreciate it. The Pan-Gal, like the apartment complex, catered for just about every known race. It wasn't as if human cuisine had taken the Galactics by storm.
Sally chatted happily about nothing as they walked through the streets and into the Pan-Gal, where a robotic waiter took their coats and steered them to a small table, surrounded by invisible forcefields. Kevin had to smile as Sally explained, with a hint of embarrassment, that most of the Galactics liked dining together, but what one race considered edible another might consider deadly poison. The forcefields ensured that no one had to smell anything they might consider offensive, scuppering whatever deal the Galactics were trying to make. It also made sure that disagreements between parties couldn't turn lethal.
“I left Earth four years ago,” Sally said. “It was meant to be a short-term contract, but it was so fascinating to be on an alien world that I just stayed here.”
“I don’t blame you,” Kevin said. Sally was far from the only human to make a home among the Galactics. There were no shortage of human traders plying the stars now, looking to earn their fortunes while seeing the galaxy. “What’s it like, working here?”
“Strange,” Sally said. “And it keeps you on your toes.”
She jabbed a finger at the holographic menu. “I’m supposed to organise dinner meetings for Mr. Ando and his clients,” she said. “Trouble is; one of his clients likes eating live beasties while Mr. Ando would find the sight repulsive. I have to sort out the dinner so that the two requirements don’t clash horrifically. And then there’s the Varnar code. Everything has to be absolutely in its place or there will be murder done. Perhaps literally.”
“It must be easier eating with me,” Kevin joked.
“It is,” Sally said. “I won’t have to watch as you masticate something that looks like a human baby, then ask snide questions about my intelligence.”
Kevin frowned. “A baby?”
“There’s a race that look like very pale and bald humans,” Sally explained. “They’re not intelligent, but several Galactics consider them a delicacy. And then they glance at me and notice I look very much like their food.”
“Yuk,” Kevin said.
“It gets worse,” Sally said. “Do you know there’s a race that is primarily composed of cannibals? They eat their own flesh, just to stay alive. God alone knows what sort of evolutionary pattern created such a nightmare.”
She tapped the menu, ordering something simple to eat, then swung it over to Kevin. “It’s only showing food humans can eat, but I’d be careful what you chose,” she advised. “Not all of it tastes nice, even if it is technically edible.”
“I understand,” Kevin said. He picked something that looked like roast lamb, then banished the menu with a wave of his hand. “Do you often meet other humans?”
“Not that often,” Sally said. “Mr. Ando keeps me very busy.”
She looked up as the robotic waiter arrived, carrying two large plates of food. Kevin took his, nodded politely to the robot, then sniffed his plate carefully. It smelled surprisingly good, for something the Galactics had produced. His last meal on an alien world had tasted suspiciously unpleasant. If he hadn't had his taste buds modified, he wouldn't have been able to eat it at all.
He took a bite of his meat, then leaned forward. “Have you ever met a Tokomak?”
“Never,” Sally said. “I believe some of Mr. Ando’s clients are Tokomaks, but they never show themselves to mere humans. He handles all s
uch matters himself.”
Kevin smiled. “They don’t trust you?”
“They never talk to anyone who doesn't come from a self-starfaring race,” Sally said. “I don’t think they really believe we’re intelligent. I heard, once, that a handful of them came to discuss matters with the Supreme Council on Varnar. One of them talked only to the Supreme Commander, the others kept their mouths shut all the time. I don’t think they were even exchanging messages through their implants.”
“I see,” Kevin said.
“They’re not the only ones,” Sally said. “Most starfaring races bend the knee to the Tokomak, but look down on any race that didn't manage to find the gravity points on their own, let alone the gravity drive. I sometimes find myself pushed aside by one of them ... and there are races that have it far worse. The Hordesmen, bastards though they are, aren't treated as anything other than slaves. And there are entire races that are practically moulded by their betters into something more ... useful.”
A Learning Experience 2: Hard Lessons Page 13
