"Michael C. Smit" IT KEEPS ON TICKING by Michael C. Smit (c) 1992,1993 The banshee scream of the siren roused the sleeping troops out of their bunks. Some geek had thought that the alarm would sound hilarious if it was like an ancient air raid siren, but the pitch was too high. No one had bothered to fix it yet. Hommette's feet hit the floor a good three seconds before any of our teammates did. While they were struggling to awake, Hommette had methodically stripped his sweaty cotton sleep whites and was first in line for the shower. That was one of the unspoken rules in Heavy Ordnance Squad 6 - Hommette was always first in the showers whenever an alarm rang. He joked that he acted by reflex until the water pounded him awake. The shower was only called such for the historical significance. First Hommette, then the rest of the squad one at a time, were hit with high pressure water and soap jets from all directions for five seconds. Following that was a fifteen second blast of hot air. Then the next trooper entered, while the first got into gear. Each member of the team had their own personalized jumpsuit tailored for their specific physique and armour. They were dark blue denim outside, with dull black reinforcements at the stress points of knees, shoulders and elbows. Electronic packages were attached at the strategic locations on the chest, back, legs, arms and neck to interface with the powered armour. There was no wasted time in the squad's deployment. In less than six minutes the ten of us were moving upwards to the roof on an express scramble elevator, adjusting the communications headsets jammed over our crew cuts. The helijet, painted the same dark blue as our uniforms with a minimum of high visibility identification marks, was already powered up and waiting for us to embark. We piled up the open belly ramp and immediately started checking out the equipment stowed along either side of the cargo bay. The helijet paused until two women jogged up from outside. As soon as they were inside the ramp began to retract and the aircraft skipped and bumped down the short platform. It leapt into the sky, rolling gently while gaining speed and distance. Meanwhile, the troopers it was preparing to deliver jostled and joked as they suited themselves up. PCK-03Y "Peacekeeper" personal body armour was one of the most advanced non-military security suits currently on the market. It was a shock cop's best friend, protecting him or her from all but the worst physical violence, enhancing their strength and endurance with a powered exoskeleton waldo, and supporting bodily functions in the typically hostile environment. Capable of paradropping at low altitude, it was ideal for rapid deployment. This made it the perfect choice for the "hoz" or Heavy Ordnance Squads of Erb Security, contracted to provide the most dangerous police and public security services to the Southwestern Urban Concentration, also known as "Tee-Oh". Even if the casualty rate for hoz troopers was the highest among Erb's employees, I'm positive it would be much higher without the Peacekeeper. So we're pulling on and strapping into the baseplates, as the torso units are called because the rest of the armour attaches to them, while the helijet "Brimstone III" is transporting us to yet another crime in progress. I'm finally becoming aware of what's going on, as I've learned Hommette's trick of sleepwalking through the initial stages in any drill. No matter what, you want to be awake when you're getting yourself into a Peacekeeper, since one faulty seal or glitch and your armour could kill you or give your opponent a similar chance. After the baseplate, you slide into the snugly fitting trunks and leggings. After making a few cable connections, the needles hit your legs and you can't feel anything below your waist. Release the safety locks and the armour is moving with you, except you can kick cars across twenty meter roadways. Next come the arms, and you help your buddy with the cables and he helps you with yours. Hommette happened to be mine, and we smiled at each other as we performed this little ritual. There's a small wait for the numbing anesthetic before flexing and stretching to test for full use of shoulders to stubby digits. Finally you slide the overplate on, which protects the baseplate and all its connectors with even more layers of high-impact resistant ceramics. We leave the helmets off for as long as possible, to breathe real air and not seal ourselves in. After four minutes of flight time we're just about ready to jump, so the lieutenant calls us over for what she calls her "locker room peptalk". Now, I don't care how much the feminist groups yell and scream, having a female lieutenant and sergeant with squad of grunts is one of the best things about Erb. They are best suited to lead us because they are professional, they can think straight during the worst firefights, and they can be far more ruthless and objective than us simple men. At least all the lieutenants I've encountered before are like that. When I was a rookie it was disconcerting to see such small and feminine faces framed by the ugly dark metallic blue of Peacekeeper armour. You're only fooled once though, because that's the PCK-04F command option armour with greater strength, heavier protection, and most importantly better communications equipment. Contrary to popular opinion, none of the lieutenants Squad 6 has had ever looked like the quintessential dyke. We've had this particular looie for four weeks now, and she's cut her red hair short. "We've got a food smash and grab downtown," she says in her coarse voice. "Mob of looters, and four in armoured suits. No data on what models yet." "How are we going in?" Hommette asked her. Another tradition of the hoz was that the oldest would always ask the questions we wanted answered. "Hot. HQ wants this one stopped in a hurry. Members of the mob are to be considered armed and dangerous, and are to be waxed unless they flee. The jokers in the suits are priority targets. Forensics can try to identify the pieces." She looked straight at me, and quipped, "No getting heroic and rescuing any of the babes, okay? Remember what happened last time?" The hoz chuckled as if one person. When the lieutenant first joined this squad, I had made a mistake in a riot situation which earned me the nickname "Cupid" and my armour a nasty gouge in the shoulder guard. Only earned a flogging at the next workout from her rather than a beating from the previous looie. I glanced at my fellows and suddenly realized that Hommette and I were the only ones who remember that particular individual. "Alright you lazy bums!" the sergeant drawled. Sergeants always drawl. "These are weapons assignments! Listen up!" While the lieutenant looked each of us over for herself, I overheard what everyone was jumping with. No surprise that I was given the long-range and high-powered armour buster to supplement my rifle. Everyone was jumping with grenades this time and I could tell the lieutenant was expecting a nasty fight. "One minute to drop site," the pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker while everyone was stowing the weaponry from the racks on their person. The soft white light in the bay faded to red. I saw Hommette slide his antique pistol into its holster on his right leg, and he winked at me before donning his helmet on his head. I quickly followed suit, jamming the claustrophobic headgear on my skull, and fastening the seals. The visibility of the exterior viewports were limited, so an enhanced image was projected on the inside of the helmet. A calmness settled over me. I was the Peacekeeper. A visual overlay materialized displaying a map of the area and symbols for the projected dispersal pattern, assembly points and estimated opposing force location and strength. I knew this was passed to us by the Erb Security satellite, which fed us information from the lieutenant. Each member of the twelve person hoz gave an armoured thumbs up as we lined up along the centerline drop door. After the warning of a flashing red light the doors folded open, and we fell from the helijet into the shadowy urban night, like dark raindrops of destruction. When the red attitude readout on my screen flashed, I released the parachute using the external trigger on the breastplate. Looking about, I saw that the squad had deployed close together and everyone was floating quickly to the ground, our plunge slowed by the black nylon material of the rectangular canopies. As the cluttered ground clawed closer, I could feel the adrenaline start to flow through my blood with the suit's combat enhancing drugs. I was hyped, I was ready, I was hoz. In preparation, I held the grip of the MP78 assault rifle, fitting the finger of my suit through the oversized trigger guard and joining with its simple fire control computer through the data pickups in the grip and my glove. Touchdown with a jolt, and the chute billowed away as the autorelease exploded. The armour absorbed the worst of the shock of landing. Immediately, the street map opened on my view screen above my right eye, highlighting each squad member's beacon. To prevent the opposition from eavesdropping or jamming communications, almost all our gear was passive. The pattern of each beacon detailed enough information to get a message across without using use radio contact. As backup and for more expansive communication, we also have a sophisticated array of hand signals. Right now, the sergeant's strobing circle told us to form up and move on the objective. With terrain devouring jogs, we started towards the initial gathering area, a park barely a block away from the besieged food warehouse. We maintained even spacing so that even if a spotter caught one of us, it might not be able to report us all before it was neutralized. Scanning the radio bands, it appeared that no one saw us converge on the park. The lieutenant, indistinguishable by uniform in the night haze from any of us, quickly pointed to specific troopers and gave the hand gestures for their assignments. It wasn't a surprise that I was paired with a relatively green recruit and ordered to bring up the rear of our formation, as the high- velocity Gundar rifle requires space to use. The kid should feel lucky because he's more likely to live through this mission. Hommette and the sergeant were paired up to spearhead our group. Without any questions, we dispersed and moved down the street in a roughly rhomboid grouping. The looting was still in progress with some of the squatters inside while others helped to carry foodstuffs away. I've got nothing against the squatters, but they were always trying to take social shortcuts rather than accept corporate improvement programs. Two of the aggressor armours were visible outside, hulking over the smaller humans who scurried about their waists. Something at the base of my skull twinged at sighting them, but I ignored it. We had tangled with larger opponents that the ones I saw now, and in the armoured suit business bigger was nastier. Except us hoz, who were the nastiest. Called in by the lieutenant's beacon, the Brimstone flew low over the crowd, and lit its quartz spotlights. The loudspeaker boomed, "Cease and desist, return to your homes. We have been authorized to use lethal force." The people freaked badly, being dazzled by the lights and disoriented by the air buffeting them from the helijet's single large rotor. As we rapidly closed the distance, I saw the lieutenant pumping her fist twice and pointing at the warehouse. The two other suits were inside. Then the enemy armoured reversed our tactical surprise and ruined our night. One of the two dun brown suits outside opened fire with a heavy calibre weapon built into its arm, scoring hits on the Brimstone that broke several spotlights and sent shrapnel through the fuselage. Helijets weren't protected by heavy armour plates because the hoz were there to take the heat. But these things moved so fast, our squad was still closing into what was considered effective range for this kind of operation while they shot up our ride. Of course, the pilot opened up with his chain gun, his inaccurate shots spraying the crowd with depleted uranium slugs that cut through unprotected bodies. Though the shots were wild, many of them glanced from the opposing armours. You have to aim carefully to penetrate at a weak point. The other one then raised its arm and launched a grenade from an integral launcher at the retreating helijet, which promptly exploded in flames; the wreckage crashed into an apartment building a block away. The sharpshooter's two comrades strode through the warehouse walls, ignoring the squatters they crushed to consolidate their four member squad. Already they had shown the use of restricted weapons and callousness towards life. The situation was going wrong in the worst possible way for us hoz, and I began to fear that what we were facing weren't even human. I quickly started setting up the Gundar in a doorway while the recruit guarded my back. Slamming the firing mechanism into the barrel, I mounted it to the fold out brace on my suit and hammered a clip of projectiles into it with a click. Then I looked around the corner again. They were winning the firefight against us troopers. With the lowlight and infrared enhancement, I saw one of the Peacekeepers face down in the street, a gaping hole in its side testament to the power of the grenade launcher. Tracers flew between the two sides, and I saw several direct hits by our M78's ricochet from the brownish armour without penetrating. Telling the kid to cover me, I sprinted across the street to get closer, firing a suppression burst of three rounds from the armour buster at our opposition and attracting considerable return fire. One of them staggered, and used its battlefist to restrict the flow of heated white liquid where one of my shots had scored. The rookie's armour took several bad hits from their cannon, including an arm hit that was bleeding through the shattered remains of the shoulder joint. The Peacekeeper had pumped enough drugs into the kid to keep him from dying for now, and soon the coagulants would reach the wound and stop the bleeding instantaneously. Peacekeepers always tried their best to keep their wearers alive. "They're military models!" shouted Hommette into his radio. "Priority comm to HQ. Confirm engagement with four hostile mil renegades. Request info via feed. Over." The lieutenant crisply reported. Even under severe pressure, she remained cool. Meanwhile we were backing up, while I covered our retreat with periodic bursts to keep them at a distance. Peacekeepers are the best non-military suits, but we were outclassed fighting things that may once have been human. The hoz never runs from a fight, but we don't throw away our lives or extensive pensions either. "Hoz 6, mil advises that four Bushi-6 combat units, that is entire squad, are considered rogue and dangerous. Wait one. Over." Above our viewscreens, we received limited information on our armoured opponents. The amount of plating they had was consistent with how they were ignoring our regular armour piercing ammunition. Only one of them had a grenade launcher, one had a rotary cannon and the other two had regular high calibre guns. All four had increased strength, reaction speed and mobility. I hate the military types who create this sort of garbage. They never have to stop their creations after they've gone nuts. Attempting to cross the street for a better angle on a vulnerable spot, one of the squad members attracted a long burst of cannonfire. Caught in the open, impacts raked upwards from the back armour to his helmet. His scream over the intercom was cut off abruptly by the order from HQ which turned this assignment into suicide. "Hoz 6, you have incoming friendly orbitals that will require terminal guidance from you. Pin hostiles and prevent further movement. Inbound in one eight zero seconds, over." "Roger that, HQ. You heard the man, take positions of cover." If you knew her well, you'd notice the lieutenant's voice was strained. All we had to do is delay them for three minutes while the space-based artillery blew the Bushis apart. If we survived that long, odd were good that we could walk away. When we stopped moving, they did too. Their fire was more accurate than ours, and it was telling. In the first minute of our desperate defense there were seven effectives left and at least three dead. I had one last clip of shells for the Gundar, but had succeeded in shattering the rotary cannon of one Bushi and seriously slowing down two of the others. Over the radio, our communications were clipped, short, and worried. Someone started tossing smoke grenades which didn't confuse the issue for anyone, as all the combatants had infrared. The sergeant bought her farm in the next minute, to a freak grenade bounce that deflected up from the overplate to detonate right under her helmet. Then we knew true death, as they rushed our position. They moved incredibly quickly, bounding and leaping around cars and chunks of building. I only had one good shot and I took it, managing to shatter one of their legs. While that one collapsed, the other three were among us. I saw Hommette blocking a downward sweep of an arm with his rifle, saw it shatter at the force of the blow, saw him collapse. The lieutenant threw a mean punch that penetrated the armour of her opponent causing milky white liquid to spurt out from the wound, but apparently didn't slow the Bushi down as it swatted her into a building. Then one of these monstrosities was bearing down on me, after capably killing another member of the squad by punching his back in. There isn't much time to think when you're in that situation. You just do what you can and hope it will be enough. So instinctively I pulled the quick release for the Gundar rifle and tossed it in the oncoming thing's head mechanism, hoping to distract it enough to get a good hit. Unfortunately, the rifle was ignored and bounced off its pitted armour while it reached for my head, grabbing the helmet with its utility battlefist. Desperate, I hit the quick release and fell to the ground, letting the beast crumple an empty shell rather than one with my head in it. I hesitated, shocked at being exposed to the crunches and screeches of meleeing armour, and didn't move fast enough to avoid the kick which landed me in pain across the street. My Peacekeeper was looking in real rough shape, and despite the drugs it must have been giving me, I didn't feel much better. My legs were immobilized by part of the wall which had fell on them, and I couldn't feel anything below my waist. Supporting myself on an arm, I twisted enough to see Hommette firing his gunpowder pistol at the thing holding him off the ground, his armour centerpunched by its battlefist. The lieutenant had been ripped in two, and that Bushi was just stomping on another squad member, pounding Peacekeeper and man into the pavement. "Hoz 6, your incoming is one five seconds out, we need a lock. HQ, over." In the calm of the aftermath, I could barely hear the calm voice. "Hoz 6, please respond." "This is... Corrigan," I managed to wheeze. All my targeting computers and most of my communications went with the helmet; the only thing I had left to give HQ a shot at these guys was myself. I glanced in time to see Hommette's corpse get tossed to the side, his right arm torn off and back bent almost double by the Bushi's strength. "Home in... on my beacon." I saw the three suits go to help their crumpled comrade. They had killed everyone but me, including Hommette who was my comfort in this crazy, lethal world. "Hoz 6, roger. You did good, guys. HQ, over." The eighteen projectiles that made up fire mission Delta-65 fell on the street where I lay, unable to move. Fired from an orbiting space platform, they were only a slice of metal and guidance packages with maneuvering thrusters. They did not require a warhead, as the kinetic energy from their fall is sufficient to obliterate most targets. Homing on my beacon, their simple fire control computers selected the largest concentration of moving targets in the area. Just before they impacted, I saw the four Bushis turn and look directly at me. Then the world went white, and I lost consciousness. Obviously I survived, since I'm telling this story. That Peacekeeper managed to keep me from dying, though the designers and doctors don't understand how. I lost my entire squad that day, and most of my body. But I don't mind, because this exoskeleton I'm trapped in is a refitted Peacekeeper, and I know that it'll never let me die. Survival of the fittest, I say.