Armor by John Steakley

just?”
    “Because you’re the one they want,” blurted the Major suddenly. The anger in his voice now bristled.
    “What?” asked Felix, equally angry. “Who wants?”
    “The warriors. Your warriors.”
    Felix was disgusted by this. “They don’t even know who I am.
    “Not your name, maybe. But they do know who you are.
    And they want the scout.”
    Felix stared at the Major, at the others.
    “This is insane.”
    “Yes,” replied the Major firmly.
    “You’re out of your mind.”
    The Major, finally, had had enough.
    “I’m out of officers, Felix. That’s what I’m out of. Now you just stand there and shut up while I give a couple of facts of war: One. Of the 642 survivors from your original assault force of ten thousand, only 285 are combat ready. Got that? Now. . . . Two. Of the twenty-three hundred I Dropped with, over six hundred died the first minute because of those goddamn ant missiles homed in on the Transit beacon. That so-called Hammer of yours. Of the remaining sixteen hundred or so, more than three hundred lost effective suit function or were killed outright when that maniac blew his suit. Three. Of the people that leaves me, only ninety percent are combat warriors. The rest are medical, supply, and maintenance types. Which leaves a grand total, if you can count, of less than fifteen hundred available combat personnel. Four. The Terra cannot pick us up for another eighteen standard hours. Five. This damned mesa can’t be held with what we get for one hour, even at night. And last, but not least. . . . Six. The sun is coming out. . . now.”
    Involuntarily, Felix followed his gaze toward the lightening sky.
    “And so, Felix, who thinks that this is insane and who is dead right about that, anyway what the hell are we gonna do?”
    We’re going to die, Felix thought. But he couldn’t say that.
    Or maybe, he thought again, he should. Why shouldn’t he? He looked again at the Major standing there aggressively a few meters away and thought about the man’s tone, about his fear. He said nothing, finally. He simply met the Major’s piercing gaze.
    After a few seconds of this, the Major broke the silence.
    “Well, I’ll tell you. Scout, what we’re gonna do. In less than one standard hour, we will assault the Knuckle enmasse”
    “Assault. . .?” repeated Felix dully.
    “Attack, Felix. In one hour, we attack.”
    Lt. Fowler, second-in-command, introduced him to the “volunteer.” “His name is Bailey, I believe,” said Fowler, pointing. “He’s a veteran. Four years.”
    Felix only dimly heard her. He was looking at the mass of silicon plaster being hurriedly applied to Bailey’s suit by three medics. He took a couple of steps toward the group and peered down into Bailey’s screen. There was a lot of blood in there.
    Felix stepped back, choking with a sudden desire to gag. “I know,” said Fowler. “But they say he should live just long enough to do the job.”
    “Does he. . . ?” Felix began, then found he had lost his voice.
    “Does he know, you mean,” asked Fowler.
    Felix nodded.
    “Yeah. He knows.”
    “And….”
    “And he’ll do it. I told you. He’s a veteran.”
    Felix looked at Fowler, looked away. “Is that what a veteran is?” he asked.
    “Partly,” said Fowler.
    Felix, for no clear reason, nodded again.
    “Come on,” said Fowler brusquely, her voice returning to a businesslike tone. “It’s time to show you the target.”
    Felix followed her back to the circle of officers that served as command center. They passed hundreds of warriors preparing to travel.
    “Have a seat,” offered Fowler. “And key your input relay. I’ll show you the picture.”
    Felix sat, keyed the proper key. After a brief pause, his holos swelled and the three-dimensional topograchart of the Knuckle, appeared transmitted from Fowler.
    The view was of the Knuckle’s southern face. The side closest to their position, at a distance of perhaps 700 meters. Fowler’s disembodied voice began to narrate: “This is from about the center of the maze. Rather imposing