Peace and War - Omnibus (3 page)

He touched the flat part of his head. 'And speaking of brains, I still have just about all of mine, in spite of Chinese efforts to the contrary. All of us old vets who mustered into UNEF had to pass the same criteria that got you drafted by the Elite Conscription Act. So I suspect all of you are smart and tough – but just keep in mind that the captain and I are smart and tough
and
experienced.'

He flipped through the roster without really looking at it. 'Now, as the captain said, there'll be only one kind of disciplinary action on maneuvers. Capital punishment. But normally
we
won't have to kill you for disobeying; Charon'll save us the trouble.

'Back in the billeting area, it'll be another story. We don't much care what you do inside. Grab ass all day and fuck all night, makes no difference… But once you suit up and go outside, you've gotta have discipline that would shame a Centurian. There will be situations where one stupid act could kill us all.

'Anyhow, the first thing we've gotta do is get you fitted to your fighting suits. The armorer's waiting at your billet; he'll take you one at a time. Let's go.'

4

Now I know you got lectured back on Earth on what a fighting suit can do.' The armorer was a small man, partially bald, with no insignia of rank on his coveralls. Sergeant Cortez had told us to call him 'sir,' since he was a lieutenant.

'But I'd like to reinforce a couple of points, maybe add some things your instructors Earthside weren't clear about or couldn't know. Your First Sergeant was kind enough to consent to being my visual aid. Sergeant?'

Cortez slipped out of his coveralls and came up to the little raised platform where a fighting suit was standing, popped open like a man-shaped clam. He backed into it and slipped his arms into the rigid sleeves. There was a click and the thing swung shut with a sigh. It was bright green with CORTEZ stenciled in white letters on the helmet.

'Camouflage, Sergeant.' The green faded to white, then dirty gray. 'This is good camouflage for Charon and most of your portal planets,' said Cortez, as if from a deep well. 'But there are several other combinations available.' The gray dappled and brightened to a combination of greens and browns: 'Jungle.' Then smoothed out to a hard light ochre: 'Desert.' Dark brown, darker, to a deep flat black: 'Night or space.'

'Very good, Sergeant. To my knowledge, this is the only feature of the suit that was perfected after your training. The control is around your left wrist and is admittedly awkward. But once you find the right combination, it's easy to lock in.

'Now, you didn't get much in-suit training Earthside. We didn't want you to get used to using the thing in a friendly environment. The fighting suit is the deadliest personal weapon ever built, and with no weapon is it easier for the user to kill himself through carelessness. Turn around, Sergeant.'

'Case in point.' He tapped a large square protuberance between the shoulders. 'Exhaust fins. As you know, the suit tries to keep you at a comfortable temperature no matter what the weather's like outside. The material of the suit is as near to a perfect insulator as we could get, consistent with mechanical demands. Therefore, these fins get
hot
– especially hot, compared to darkside temperatures – as they bleed off the body's heat.

'All you have to do is lean up against a boulder of frozen gas; there's lots of it around. The gas will sublime off faster than it can escape from the fins; in escaping, it will push against the surrounding "ice" and fracture it … and in about one-hundredth of a second, you have the equivalent of a hand grenade going off right below your neck. You'll never feel a thing.

'Variations on this theme have killed eleven people in the past two months. And they were just building a bunch of huts.

'I assume you know how easily the waldo capabilities can kill you or your companions. Anybody want to shake hands with the sergeant?' He paused, then stepped over and clasped his glove. 'He's had lots of practice. Until
you
have, be extremely careful. You might scratch an itch and wind up breaking your back. Remember, semi-logarithmic response: two pounds' pressure exerts five pounds' force; three pounds' gives ten; four pounds', twenty-three; five pounds', forty-seven. Most of you can muster up a grip of well over a hundred pounds. Theoretically, you could rip a steel girder in two with that, amplified. Actually, you'd destroy the material of your gloves and, at least on Charon, die very quickly. It'd be a race between decompression and flash-freezing. You'd die no matter which won.

'The leg waldos are also dangerous, even though the amplification is less extreme. Until you're really skilled, don't try to run, or jump. You're likely to trip, and that means you're likely to die.'

'Charon's gravity is three-fourths of Earth normal, so it's not too bad. But on a really small world, like Luna, you could take a running jump and not come down for twenty minutes, just keep sailing over the horizon. Maybe bash into a mountain at eighty meters per second. On a small asteroid, it'd be no trick at all to run up to escape velocity and be off on an informal tour of intergalactic space. It's a slow way to travel.

'Tomorrow morning, we'll start teaching you how to stay alive inside this infernal machine. The rest of the afternoon and evening, I'll call you one at a time to be fitted. That's all, Sergeant.'

Cortez went to the door and turned the stopcock that let air into the airlock. A bank of infrared lamps went on to keep air from freezing inside it. When the pressures were equalized, he shut the stopcock, unclamped the door and stepped in, clamping it shut behind him. A pump hummed for about a minute, evacuating the airlock, then he stepped out and sealed the outside door.

It was pretty much like the ones on Luna.

'First I want Private Omar Almizar. The rest of you can go find your bunks. I'll call you over the squawker.'

'Alphabetical order, sir?'

'Yep. About ten minutes apiece. If your name begins with Z, you might as well get sacked.'

That was Rogers. She probably was thinking about getting sacked.

5

The sun was a hard white point directly overhead. It was a lot brighter than I had expected it to be; since we were eighty AUs out, it was only one 6400th as bright as it is on Earth. Still, it was putting out about as much light as a powerful streetlamp.

'This is considerably more light than you'll have on a portal planet.' Captain Stott's voice crackled in our collective ear. 'Be glad that you'll be able to watch your step.'

We were lined up, single-file, on the permaplast sidewalk that connected the billet and the supply hut. We'd practiced walking inside, all morning, and this wasn't any different except for the exotic scenery. Though the light was rather dim, you could see all the way to the horizon quite clearly, with no atmosphere in the way. A black cliff that looked too regular to be natural stretched from one horizon to the other, passing within a kilometer of us. The ground was obsidian-black, mottled with patches of white or bluish ice. Next to the supply hut was a small mountain of snow in a bin marked
OXYGEN
.

The suit was fairly comfortable, but it gave you the odd feeling of simultaneously being a marionette and a puppeteer. You apply the impulse to move your leg and the suit picks it up and magnifies it and moves your leg
for
you.

'Today we're only going to walk around the company area, and nobody will
leave
the company area.' The captain wasn't wearing his .45 – unless he carried it as a good luck charm, under his suit – but he had a laser-finger like the rest of us. And his was probably hooked up.

Keeping an interval of at least two meters between each person, we stepped off the permaplast and followed the captain over smooth rock. We walked carefully for about an hour, spiraling out, and finally stopped at the far edge of the perimeter.

'Now everybody pay close attention. I'm going out to that blue slab of ice' – it was a big one, about twenty meters away – 'and show you something that you'd better know if you want to stay alive.'

He walked out in a dozen confident steps. 'First I have to heat up a rock – filters down.' I squeezed the stud under my armpit and the filter slid into place over my image converter. The captain pointed his finger at a black rock the size of a basketball, and gave it a short burst. The glare rolled a long shadow of the captain over us and beyond. The rock shattered into a pile of hazy splinters.

'It doesn't take long for these to cool down.' He stopped and picked up a piece. 'This one is probably twenty or twenty-five degrees. Watch.' He tossed the 'warm' rock onto the ice slab. It skittered around in a crazy pattern and shot off the side. He tossed another one, and it did the same.

'As you know, you are not quite
perfectly
insulated. These rocks are about the temperature of the soles of your boots. If you try to stand on a slab of hydrogen, the same thing will happen to you. Except that the rock is
already
dead.

'The reason for this behavior is that the rock makes a slick interface with the ice – a little puddle of liquid hydrogen – and rides a few molecules above the liquid on a cushion of hydrogen vapor. This makes the rock or
you
a frictionless bearing as far as the ice is concerned, and you
can't
stand up without any friction under your boots.

'After you have lived in your suit for a month or so you
should
be able to survive falling down, but right
now
you just don't know enough. Watch.'

The captain flexed and hopped up onto the slab. His feet shot out from under him and he twisted around in midair, landing on hands and knees. He slipped off and stood on the ground.

'The idea is to keep your exhaust fins from making contact with the frozen gas. Compared to the ice they are as hot as a blast furnace, and contact with any weight behind it will result in an explosion.'

After that demonstration, we walked around for another hour or so and returned to the billet. Once through the airlock, we had to mill around for a while, letting the suits get up to something like room temperature. Somebody came up and touched helmets with me.

'William?' She had
MCCOY
stenciled above her face-plate.

'Hi, Sean. Anything special?'

'I just wondered if you had anyone to sleep with tonight.'

That's right; I'd forgotten. There wasn't any sleeping roster here. Everybody chose his own partner. 'Sure, I mean, uh, no … no, I haven't asked anybody. Sure, if you want to…'

'Thanks, William. See you later.' I watched her walk away and thought that if anybody could make a fighting suit look sexy, it'd be Sean. But even she couldn't.

Cortez decided we were warm enough and led us to the suit room, where we backed the things into place and hooked them up to the charging plates. (Each suit had a little chunk of plutonium that would power it for several years, but we were supposed to run on fuel cells as much as possible.) After a lot of shuffling around, everybody finally got plugged in and we were allowed to unsuit – ninety-seven naked chickens squirming out of bright green eggs. It was
cold –
the air, the floor and especially the suits – and we made a pretty disorderly exit toward the lockers.

I slipped on tunic, trousers and sandals and was still cold. I took my cup and joined the line for soya. Everybody was jumping up and down to keep warm.

'How c-cold, do you think, it is, M-Mandella?' That was McCoy.

'I don't, even want, to think, about it.' I stopped jumping and rubbed myself as briskly as possible, while holding a cup in one hand. 'At least as cold as Missouri was.'

'Ung … wish they'd, get some, fucken, heat in, this place.' It always affects the small women more than anybody else. McCoy was the littlest one in the company, a waspwaist doll barely five feet high.

'They've got the airco going. It can't be long now.'

'I wish I, was a big, slab of, meat like, you.'

I was glad she wasn't.

6

We had our first casualty on the third day, learning how to dig holes.

With such large amounts of energy stored in a soldier's weapons, it wouldn't be practical for him to hack out a hole in the frozen ground with the conventional pick and shovel. Still, you can launch grenades all day and get nothing but shallow depressions – so the usual method is to bore a hole in the ground with the hand laser, drop a timed charge in after it's cooled down and, ideally, fill the hole with stuff. Of course, there's not much loose rock on Charon, unless you've already blown a hole nearby.

The only difficult thing about the procedure is in getting away. To be safe, we were told, you've got to either be behind something really solid, or be at least a hundred meters away. You've got about three minutes after setting the charge, but you can't just sprint away. Not safely, not on Charon.

The accident happened when we were making a really deep hole, the kind you want for a large underground bunker. For this, we had to blow a hole, then climb down to the bottom of the crater and repeat the procedure again and again until the hole was deep enough. Inside the crater we used charges with a five-minute delay, but it hardly seemed enough time – you really had to go it slow, picking your way up the crater's edge.

Just about everybody had blown a double hole; everybody but me and three others. I guess we were the only ones paying really close attention when Bovanovitch got into trouble. All of us were a good two hundred meters away. With my image converter turned up to about forty power, I watched her disappear over the rim of the crater. After that, I could only listen in on her conversation with Cortez.

'I'm on the bottom, Sergeant.' Normal radio procedure was suspended for maneuvers like this; nobody but the trainee and Cortez was allowed to broadcast.

'OK, move to the center and clear out the rubble. Take your time. No rush until you pull the pin.'

'Sure, Sergeant.' We could hear small echoes of rocks clattering, sound conduction through her boots. She didn't say anything for several minutes.