little slower, swinging and jiggling like funhouse skeletons.
His stores manager was a small Korean girl with a sarcastic smile.
"Nestor!" she announced, swiping him as he came up to her station. "Fuck's happening, man?"
"Fit me up, Chin."
"I so will, soldier boy. You're usually first man in."
"I got held up."
"Fuck that. You gonna kill someone for me, real nice?"
"Sure. You got blate for me?"
She did a little shimmy, elbows out, as the ablative/ballistic plate armour rattled down the rail towards them like clothes on a carousel at a dry cleaner's.
"Only best blate for you, hot boy," she said.
"You're a freeking ® star, Chin."
"You gonna get that shit stripped out, Nestor?" she asked, pointing at his mouth. "It's not good. I wanna hear you talk dirty talk."
"I dunno."
"Docs do it right now," she said. "You go ask. Takes like five fucking minutes."
"I figured I'd keep it, Chin," he said. "Let my piper do my talking for me."
"You badass!" she declared.
He looked badass. Ten minutes later, plated and blated, he caught sight of his reflection in the screen windows of the obs station. The body panels bulked his already tall, hefty frame to heroic proportions. The backboard contained rechargeable power packs for running any and all equipment, including the integral Limb Assist Exo Frame, an external servo armature buckled around his left arm, designed to help support and steady the M3A piper during extended operations. The inertially reactive joints uttered a soft purr every time he moved his shoulder or elbow.
He passed the misters, filling the doorway space with a fine fog of Insect-Aside.
Team Kilo was assembling on the decking beside its hopter in the dust-mote dark of the hangar. Their pipers, PAPs and thumpers were laid out on the ground sheets under the tail boom. The hopter was just one of eighteen set up for final check as its team gathered for prep brief and grace. There was a smell of petrochemicals and paint. Amped voices delivered echoing instructions across the hangar yard, and the air throbbed with starter motor testfires, warning hooters from freight porters and the pulsed whoop of power drivers winding home hex-head screws.
Eighteen matt-grey boomers, lined up just so, like missiles in a silo cage.
"Good of you to join us," said Huckelbery, the staff sergeant, as he walked out onto the mat. Everyone else was there, apart from the sergeant. Caudel, Stabler, Goran, Jay, Preben, Valdes, Bigmouse, the rest. They were all on their knees, or squatting, making a half-circle around Huck. Some of them were still adjusting the fit of their fresh-issue harnesses, or re-lacing their boots.
"Was going to let you go on ahead," he said, dropping in beside Caudel, "but I knew you wouldn't last five minutes without me."
"Yuckity yuck," replied the staff sergeant. "Briefing's gonna be in the air, but so far we know it's Gunbelt Highway, Eyeburn Hill Junction, and we know it's Close Target Recon."
"But we know it's the Hard Place, right?" asked Valdes.
"The hardest," replied Huck. "Guaranteed hot pocket. This is no fuckabout. It's come down from the top, the gloves are off. We're going in live, so I do not expect you rat-ass motherfuckers to make me look like a pretard. Every day for months you've been telling me you want the real thing. Here we go, the real thing. You fumble this, so help me I will sodomise each and every one of you with a loaded PAP 20. Who are you?"
"Team Kilo."
Huck looked unimpressed, cupped a hand to his ear.
"Who?"
"Team Kilo!"
"Better. Let's take a moment, okay?"
They all bowed their heads. Some hands covered hearts, some clasped ID brooches. He heard several sets of LEAF servos purr.
"God of my personal conviction," Huck said. They all echoed the words. "Watch over me on this morning, and throughout this endeavour, and watch over my comrades in this unit,
His stores manager was a small Korean girl with a sarcastic smile.
"Nestor!" she announced, swiping him as he came up to her station. "Fuck's happening, man?"
"Fit me up, Chin."
"I so will, soldier boy. You're usually first man in."
"I got held up."
"Fuck that. You gonna kill someone for me, real nice?"
"Sure. You got blate for me?"
She did a little shimmy, elbows out, as the ablative/ballistic plate armour rattled down the rail towards them like clothes on a carousel at a dry cleaner's.
"Only best blate for you, hot boy," she said.
"You're a freeking ® star, Chin."
"You gonna get that shit stripped out, Nestor?" she asked, pointing at his mouth. "It's not good. I wanna hear you talk dirty talk."
"I dunno."
"Docs do it right now," she said. "You go ask. Takes like five fucking minutes."
"I figured I'd keep it, Chin," he said. "Let my piper do my talking for me."
"You badass!" she declared.
He looked badass. Ten minutes later, plated and blated, he caught sight of his reflection in the screen windows of the obs station. The body panels bulked his already tall, hefty frame to heroic proportions. The backboard contained rechargeable power packs for running any and all equipment, including the integral Limb Assist Exo Frame, an external servo armature buckled around his left arm, designed to help support and steady the M3A piper during extended operations. The inertially reactive joints uttered a soft purr every time he moved his shoulder or elbow.
He passed the misters, filling the doorway space with a fine fog of Insect-Aside.
Team Kilo was assembling on the decking beside its hopter in the dust-mote dark of the hangar. Their pipers, PAPs and thumpers were laid out on the ground sheets under the tail boom. The hopter was just one of eighteen set up for final check as its team gathered for prep brief and grace. There was a smell of petrochemicals and paint. Amped voices delivered echoing instructions across the hangar yard, and the air throbbed with starter motor testfires, warning hooters from freight porters and the pulsed whoop of power drivers winding home hex-head screws.
Eighteen matt-grey boomers, lined up just so, like missiles in a silo cage.
"Good of you to join us," said Huckelbery, the staff sergeant, as he walked out onto the mat. Everyone else was there, apart from the sergeant. Caudel, Stabler, Goran, Jay, Preben, Valdes, Bigmouse, the rest. They were all on their knees, or squatting, making a half-circle around Huck. Some of them were still adjusting the fit of their fresh-issue harnesses, or re-lacing their boots.
"Was going to let you go on ahead," he said, dropping in beside Caudel, "but I knew you wouldn't last five minutes without me."
"Yuckity yuck," replied the staff sergeant. "Briefing's gonna be in the air, but so far we know it's Gunbelt Highway, Eyeburn Hill Junction, and we know it's Close Target Recon."
"But we know it's the Hard Place, right?" asked Valdes.
"The hardest," replied Huck. "Guaranteed hot pocket. This is no fuckabout. It's come down from the top, the gloves are off. We're going in live, so I do not expect you rat-ass motherfuckers to make me look like a pretard. Every day for months you've been telling me you want the real thing. Here we go, the real thing. You fumble this, so help me I will sodomise each and every one of you with a loaded PAP 20. Who are you?"
"Team Kilo."
Huck looked unimpressed, cupped a hand to his ear.
"Who?"
"Team Kilo!"
"Better. Let's take a moment, okay?"
They all bowed their heads. Some hands covered hearts, some clasped ID brooches. He heard several sets of LEAF servos purr.
"God of my personal conviction," Huck said. They all echoed the words. "Watch over me on this morning, and throughout this endeavour, and watch over my comrades in this unit,
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