Priam's Lens Page 6

  “You’re sure that they won’t just pull up stakes fast and light out of here before we can do anything?”

  “They cannot so much as alter the Odysseus’s orbit a fraction of an arc second without my permission, and that of about a dozen other computers linked into this base and, of course, the harbormaster. You are not a pilot of large vessels. This is quite out of the question.”

  “I am a combat security officer,” Harker responded needlessly, particularly to this computer. He was licensed to fly shuttles if need be, and other light craft, but he wouldn’t have the first thought of how to run a ship like his own frigate, let alone the Odysseus. Just getting into that module and interfacing with the ship wasn’t enough; it was a symbiotic relationship, a captain and his or her ship, just as it was between a combat soldier and the combat e-suit. He was, in fact, spending several hours a day inside this new one they’d created especially for him and for this mission. He had to have complete trust in that computer and be totally relaxed in order to fuse with it to make the kind of split-second decisions that might be required. His old suit wouldn’t do. That was designed to go into a war situation and fight. It took a very special design to allow itself to be effectively glued to the outside of a spaceship and then have everything in it and of it survive intact. This had been done before; everybody was sure of that. Trouble was, nobody could find the reports of anybody who’d done it and then returned to file a mission statement.

  “Have you got all the readings you need?” Harker asked the chief.

  “Yes, sir. More than enough, I think.”

  “Then let’s get back down.”

  “I still think you’re nuts, beggin’ your pardon, sir. I know they say it’s been done, but I’d want to meet the bloke what done it before I’d take that ride.”

  “Fortunately, you don’t have to take that ride,” he responded. But I do, damn it!

  Everybody told him he was crazy to do it, but higher-ups didn’t seem too hellbent on keeping him from trying, and a ton of money was being spent making sure he’d survive. He wondered what would happen if he did chicken out of it, or simply accepted that it was a damnfool thing to do?

  But, of course, there was always a volunteer somewhere. Somebody who thought he or she was immortal.

  The big e-suit was an adaptation of the standard combat suit. A kind of self-contained little ecosystem, providing for all human needs for an extended period of time, lots of flexibility, lots of tools, lots of data, you name it. Theoretically, you could live a long time in one of these even if you were clinging to a bit of crust on molten lava, walking the vacuum of a dead world, under pressures that would crush diamonds, or immersed in corrosive liquids and gases. It manufactured its own food in the form of nutrient bars from a tiny energy-to-matter converter combined with recycled material from the body that combat soldiers preferred not to think about too much. Water loss was virtually nil. About the only sure thing you couldn’t do in it was screw.

  At its heart was the bio-interface: a connection between human and machine so nearly absolute that you almost became one with it, with actual suit operational functions and data I/O at the speed of thought.

  It looked imposing but was actually pretty comfortable, and it could twist, bend, and contort as fast as a human body could. At its base was a material created in the depths of space and in a few secret laboratories that so far hadn’t ever been duplicated by anybody outside Confederacy Forces and the Science and Technology Branch. Few knew that it was actually grown in great tanks, then activated with a power plant that was made to do just that job for a very long time. Like the human inside, every device, every bit of data, memory, everything was a part of the suit’s genetic programming as determined by the lab boys.

  Harker’s new one was sleeker than most, a specialized model, but he never got over its wondrous capabilities and how it made him feel. The sense of power, of great knowledge, of being something of a demigod at least, was overwhelming once you were inside and interfaced. That was why, deep inside each suit’s programming, there were safeguards lest a wearer forget who he worked for. Mister Harker had no intention of forgetting, but, like all others who’d been trained in combat arms, he did love it. The old Marine saying was that the cleverest thing the designers had done was make something better than sex.

  For all that, it was a smooth affair, seemingly solid, streamlined, with no evident sharp corners. It looked like a child’s balloon, a humanoid without features and without joints, just standing there. The color was dull neutral gray, and there was no hint of the complexities inside. Once he put it on and interfaced, there would be not one part of him visible to anyone outside, but when somebody was inside, this childish-looking thing took on a sense of life and even menace.

  There was no need to go through complex security checks. The suit knew his genetic code to the last little digit, and after the first time he put it on, it had planted a few tiny little microscopic parts of itself in his cells that ensured that he, and only he, could use this suit.

  It recognized him even as he approached; it suddenly straightened and took on a semblance of independent life. A technician nearby looked up and called, “You gonna take it for a spin this time, Mister Harker? Or just through the course?”

  “Just the course again for now,” he replied. “I need to bridge that last little gap of resistance.” Not the suit’s resistance, of course: his. Because the interfacing was a two-way street, after all, and for everybody breaking in a new one, there was something about relinquishing total control to a system that you hadn’t been born with or grown up with that was naturally there. For all that it was great to be inside one, there was still something deep in the human psyche that didn’t quite accept the idea that as much as the human would be running the machine, the machine would be running the human.

  Paying no attention to the staff around the place, he removed all his clothing, even his ring and watch, put them neatly in a locker, then went over, stood in front of the suit, turned his back on it, and let the suit come to him and envelop him, as if it were an amoeba ingesting a host.

  Once you expected it, the Sensation was oddly warm and comforting; in Advanced Infantry Training, when you used limited, more generic training suits, the first time was terrifying. There were many people who simply couldn’t take it, couldn’t let any part of themselves go, and them the training suits would simply eject. Those guys would spend the rest of their instantly limited military careers doing public relations or sitting long hours by communications rigs listening to nothing, backing up the computers and when in doubt kicking queries upstairs.

  There were even a lot of questions, right from the start of the truly all-computerized military services, if people had to be risked at all. Computers were smart enough to do a lot of it themselves, after all, and could be given orders from afar. Trouble was, nobody really trusted any kind of artificial intelligence that had the power to do what these suits could with no human directly in the loop. The machines were far too smart now for most people. It wouldn’t take much to make some of them wonder why they still needed humans around at all.

  He breathed normally, and soon air was coming as his body expected; as the systems came online, cell by cell, nerve end by nerve end, skin and suit got connected up. There was a momentary unpleasantness when the “shit catcher,” as the infantry boys called it, injected and the other end was also encased and controlled, but by now that was expected.

  In fact, his body was now pretty much on automatic, almost as if he were in a deep and dreamless sleep, except that he himself was fully awake and aware. Shortly, vision, hearing, even a sense of smell and touch, returned, pretty much as before, although his eyes were actually closed, his ears blocked, and his nose occupied by mere breathing. Even the breathing wasn’t totally necessary; the suit could easily maintain oxygen and CO2 levels in his blood and all sorts of other things as needed. It had been found that breathing made subjects feel more at ease—more, well, human.


  The technician watched, not because she was seeing something she didn’t see routinely, but because she had to check the external systems before releasing the subject. Within another minute or so, Chief Warrant Officer Gene Harker would be—well, the only way to put it was superhuman. If something went wrong, it was easier to press the deactivation remote here than to try and do it elsewhere after half the base had been trashed.

  The head never changed, but the arms shaped themselves into more humanlike arms, the legs seemed more like human legs with thick, shiny boots, and there were certain little personality things that tended to come out uniquely on each one. About half the women, for example, shaped the suits in a feminine form and even gave the suggestion of breasts; the other half tried to be so neuter the suit looked like a robot.

  “Systems check,” she called to him. “Audible?”

  “Check!” came his voice, sounding quite natural, although there was no evident mouth or speaker.

  “Visual, forward and sweep.”

  He looked at her, then opened up a 360-degree sweep, even though it was half wall. The human mind resisted more than a forward one-eighty when walking, but it was always nice to be able to see where needed and when needed, and for sentry duty it was ideal. He also checked the telescopic vision, actually counting three nose hairs in the technician’s left nostril that he decided not to mention. Both telescope and microscope were built in, along with a lot of other functions.

  He flexed his arms, took a couple of steps forward, then the glassy bubblelike head nodded. “I think we’re a go. How’s this for a camouflage check?” The suit suddenly turned a bright metallic shade of glowing pink with yellow and green stripes moving up and down.

  “Oh, that’ll fool everybody,” she responded, having seen this joke no more than a half dozen times—today.

  The suit changed again, this time echoing the colors of the wall, floor, and other things it was being viewed against. The colors shifted as he moved, keeping things just right automatically. Of course, the colors were all muted solids here, easy to handle, but it was amazing how near invisible this thing could get in the open, particularly outside urban areas or on bleak otherworldly landscapes.

  “You have a course you want, or should I just randomize one?” she asked him.

  “Random. I’m solid on the basics, I need some real surprises.”

  “You got it. Enter through Passage Three.”

  These simulations were good, almost too good, but they had two limitations. The first was that, no matter how convincing, they were just simulations and, deep down, you knew it, no matter how good they got. Second, nobody had ever built a simulation for riding the outer hull of a starship through a genhole.

  Funny, he’d never thought of that before. You’d think that if anybody else had done it, they’d have almost forced the guy to create a simulation just for contingency’s sake. And since he knew that there had been others, at least a few, that implied...

  Maybe the chief was right. Maybe he should insist on meeting somebody who did it, or find out the reason why he couldn’t.

  He walked down the hall past the first two doors, then reached out and pressed the entry pad on the number 3. The door opened, and he entered another world.

  • • •

  It still wasn’t right. He wondered if he should have stepped inside so readily when he felt this way. It wasn’t that the suit wasn’t up and running properly, or that he didn’t need the training—in fact, he enjoyed it to a degree—but it was the damned interface. It still felt as if he was operating a device, a machine, rather than becoming one with the suit. That was the single problem he still hadn’t completely licked, and if he didn’t then there was no way this was going to work.

  It was a jungle in there, and he checked the gauges. Temperature was forty-three Celsius, humidity one hundred percent, which was easily seen by the clouds hanging halfway up the trees, the mist in the air, and the fact that any movement caused him to get wetter. People commonly made the mistaken assumption that it rained at a hundred percent. That would mean that a full glass overflowed. It started raining when you filled it over a hundred percent, but just at the maximum the water hung in the air. The suit, of course, simply registered it and then promptly forgot it once it analyzed the rain as common water, nothing more. There were a ton of trace elements, of course, as there always were, but they were safely ignored as none flagged anything in the suit’s extensive database.

  Still, there was something wrong here. Pressure was okay, water was okay, that meant—

  A huge leafy plant suddenly came alive and lunged at him, revealing a near endless mouth bounded by countless tendrils. The speed of the thing was incredible; it was practically swallowing him as he reacted, first by feeding a stiff electric jolt to the outer skin of the suit, and, when the plant shuddered but kept on swallowing, a slice and hack with hands that were turning to sharp machetes and going as much by sensors as anything else while the suit ingested a few cells of the plant’s mouth and did a rapid analysis. Unable to come up with a likely herbicide before it would be pointless, the suit suddenly sprouted long swordlike spikes from head to feet, extending them and digging into the plant, particularly inside the mouth. He applied power and began a rotation that, for a moment, caused the thing to shudder. Then it stopped him cold in a standoff. Damn! This thing was strong!

  The suit did have power limits, since it also had to maintain a lot of other functions, but it was stronger than the flesh of the plant and, after a test of strength that went on for what seemed like several minutes, he finally felt the spikes start to give. His rotation resumed, in fits and starts, now tearing out chunks of the inside of the plant’s mouth. Quickly he shifted the spikes to sword edges, which began to move more rapidly, literally coring out the outer section of mouth. He fell back, then had to use his superhuman strength to lift the core off him and toss it.

  Analysis showed the thing could be vaporized. His right arm became a small disruptor and he shot the thing, bathing it in a white-hot energy glow, watching it flare, then simply cease to exist except as a slightly smoldering mass of goo.

  This was not a good start. He’d been slow to react; he’d had to command something to happen rather than simply thinking it so, so that precious seconds were lost that might have favored the plant, and he’d shown up his own weaknesses. And this was just the welcoming committee!

  Now he looked around through full spectrum scan and saw signs that much of the jungle was a bit more alive than anybody would expect. The vines moved; the bushes quivered in anticipation, and although the trees looked like trees they probably were the brains of the operation.

  Okay, let’s see. Fifty thousand volts for five seconds had merely irritated the thing, and it had the muscular strength of the suit, just not its supertough and selfrepairing shell. Energy levels were still depressed slightly. Hell, you’d need a fucking singularity in your power supply to walk through this.

  So it was best not to walk through it.

  The magnetic field was actually fairly strong; data said it was certainly strong enough and uniform enough. He switched on the maglev and rose about three meters in the air. He might still be caught by those vines or other hidden things that might be in the trees—or the trees themselves—but at least he was just above where those wandering carnivorous bushes could jump. First problem solved, but not as easily as it should have been, and not without some power drain, which wasn’t serious because the e-suit would easily reset itself, but which was simply too much too soon. If he had to call on really powerdraining equipment, he might not make it to the end. That, of course, was part of the exercise. The data monitor indicated that he had put in for a one-hour problem, and he still had fifty-three minutes to go.

  The basic problem in this sort of scenario, if none was stated, was to find your way out without being killed, eaten, or captured by someone or something. There were also guarding, transporting, holding, and taking problems, but this seemed pretty straight
forward—just, well, as unpleasant a sim as they were supposed to be. The door he’d come through was closed and locked behind him and had already been effectively removed from his reality. There was another exit somewhere that could be reached and used within the time set by the problem, but that was all he got.

  The machete was good enough to take care of the vines, which got so omnipresent that at least he achieved one goal: he began dealing with them snaking out of the trees and trying to lasso him without even thinking more about them.

  He was beginning to feel very comfortable, and that was a bad sign. They were going to start throwing stuff at him any moment now.

  “Hey, Eugene, wanna come out and play?” The call, sounding highly derisive and insulting, came to him telepathically. He wasn’t a telepath, nor was the sender, but one person in a suit could send to another pretty much as if they were.

  “That you, Bambi?”

  “That’s Barbara, asshole! I heard you were putt in in for hero. That ain’t no job for a Navy man! That’s a job for the Marines!”

  “Not this time, babe. This requires some fancy flying. I don’t think there’s much grunt work where I’m heading.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s see. Women make the better pilots, you know that. Faster reaction time for longer periods. So all you got is a dick I don’t need and muscles, and my suit’s bigger ’n your suit, so there! See, I’m the wild card, Eugie. Ready or not, here I come!”

  The suit reacted almost instantly: Enemy in range.

  Relax, got to just relax, let it flow, he told himself. Let the suit do the work.

  He wondered if she just happened to be training here and was delighted to take the bait or whether she’d waited for him. She was good, very good, at her job, and she knew it. But she’d always had a bug up her ass about him. She was not only a top soldier, she was damned good-looking, too, and she wasn’t used to being turned down by guys who looked pretty fair themselves, weren’t married, and were known to like girls. In her mind, everything was competition, everything was power, and she didn’t like to lose at any point.