Jungle colony book 2, p.99
Jungle (Colony Book 2), page 99
Ikeda nodded. “Understood. Good luck, Neres. I hope you find some answers.”
“Me too,” Anna said as they turned away from one another. “Me too.”
The walk back to the armory was short, but it still seemed to stretch on before her as her mind churned. A hundred different possibilities were clamoring for attention, each vying for her focus and awareness as she worked to narrow her thoughts down to the most important things.
Pre-mission jitters, she thought, but it wasn’t entirely the truth. There was an undercurrent to the nervous, electric energy flowing through her, a sense of something completely alien. Combat was one thing—even against strange, alien drones. But inside the ruins of a colony city?
That’s something I’ve never done, she thought as she neared the armory. Abandoned villages, towns, and cities? Sure. Inside occupied and partially evacuated megascrapers, yeah. Old battlegrounds? Sí. But a colony city? Well … now that I think of it …
Technically, North Shore had been a colony city. Just a very old one, and one with a lot more people to it. And it was evacuated, abandoned. It just wasn’t a ruin. At least, not when I started. A faint grin slid across her features. By the time we were done, though …
She could almost hear the hum her PR6-BFG had made in her hands as she and her squad had swept through the city. That was a beautiful weapon. Too bad it had been a casualty in the loss of North Shore, sacrificed when the quantum warhead had reduced the city to a time-trapped, endlessly resetting pile of rubble. And while her contract had included a clause for loss of equipment, Eidre had sidestepped the replacement of the valuable weapon by simply delaying payment.
And if this is all shaping up the way I’m worried it is, then I doubt we’re going to find it easy to collect on any of it, Anna thought as she arrived at the armory, the door opening under her touch. If UNSEC is all about making us disappear … I doubt they’ll be up to handing over a new PR6 in the event we do make it back.
The thought only served to stir a small ember of anger in her chest. I liked that gun.
Inside the armory, Jake and Botha stood by one of the workbenches, both clad in identical grey security suits. Too identical, Anna thought as she looked at the pair. Botha wasn’t that tall, but Jake wasn’t exactly a stunning specimen of verticality either—Not that it matters that much overall, she thought quickly—which meant that both were fairly close in that regard. Combined with the visors that would tint under the bright sunlight of K-24 … of whatever planet they were on, she could see an immediate problem.
Identifying marks, she thought as Jake gave her a quick nod of acknowledgement before calling Botha’s focus back to him as he showed her another aspect of her suit. Something with color. There was colored tape somewhere in one of the workbench drawers—good, tough stuff that stayed attached. One of them would have to find it.
She moved past the pair, heading for one of the other workbenches where she’d laid out their various kits for the day. Her FOX-9s had been checked and cleaned, as well as her thrower and the knock-off close-quarters rifle she’d taken with her the day before. Her armor paneling was nearby, ready to go.
Her stomach let out a faint rumble of hunger, too quiet to be heard over the hum of the hab’s systems but enough that she could feel it gnawing at her insides. I need to eat something, she thought, turning away from the table. Where did I put that—There it is.
Plastic crinkled as she picked up the military meal bar she’d set out earlier, grimacing as she saw the flavor. Turkey cranberry. Not one of my favorites. She tore the plastic aside with a practiced motion and bit into the dry, chewy mixture, doing her best to ignore the hints of almost-there flavor.
The consistency was the worst. It was like eating clay-bound sand. She swallowed the mess quickly, forcing it down her throat and into her gut. As unpalatable as the bars were sometimes, they served a good purpose. The tiny capsules in the mixture would slowly dole out a day’s worth of calories before banding together and absorbing as much of her body’s waste product as possible. The end result was a meal that both nourished the consumer and provided a highly-densified method of waste removal—perfect for long deployments when you really didn’t want to have to find other solutions to the problem of removing bodily waste. By locking it with a meal bar, a soldier could expect to go far longer without the need to relieve themselves than would otherwise be possible.
And the last thing I want to do is have to wait around to find out if that colony’s toilets still work, Anna thought, washing the remains of the bar down with a quick sip of water. She’d already had Jake and Botha both consume one of the bars so that they would be under the same advantage she would. The effect wouldn’t quite be the same on their un-augmented physiology, but it would work well enough that they should both be fine for a day or so.
“Anna?” Jake’s voice pulled her away from her examination of her kit, and she turned to see both of them focusing on her. “I’ve run her through the suit. You ready to explain her kit?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving the zoologist a nod. “Come on over here.” She waved a hand, motioning to the far end of the workbench. Botha moved quickly—almost too quickly—nearly tripping as she forgot about the slight enhancement abilities of the suit. She caught herself with an embarrassed smile that couldn’t quite hide the tension in her face, and then came to a stop alongside the workbench as Anna waited.
“All right,” Anna said, looking her in the eyes and then turning to the selection of weapons on the table. “I know you’ve got some experience with self-defense armaments; you’ve said as much before, working with wildlife the way you did, so this should all feel pretty familiar. For starters …” She wrapped her hand around the grip of a boxy, heavy-looking utilitarian pistol and hefted it. “A Slugger. You’ve carried one before—and used it—so you know what you’re getting. Variable loadout, but we’re not bringing anything non-lethal, so I’d suggest avoiding stun-rounds or goobers and going straight for splinter rounds or some other form of close-range defense. I’ve checked, we have incendiaries, but if you’ve not used those I’d suggest just sticking with splinters—non-AP—or personal defense rounds.”
“Moving on,” she said, setting the Slugger back down and picking up a new weapon. “You’ve seen Jake and I carry these: The Rezzer R7 shotgun, made by the same people who built the Slugger.” She flipped the boxy shotgun in her hands to give Botha a quick look at its squared design—a visual similarity shared by the Slugger, and then snapped the magazine’s loading port open with a quick twist of her hand, showing that the weapon wasn’t loaded. “Used one before?”
Botha shook her head. “No, we carried Mossbergs.”
“Ah,” Anna said, nodding as another quick flip of her wrist closed the port once more. “Good model. Basic principle’s the same. Butt end against your shoulder, barrel towards your target.” She snapped the gun up in a firing position. “Trigger, ejection port, loading, safety,” she said, tapping each respective part with a finger. “There’s a reticule-link option for your suit, and I’d suggest taking it so that you always know roughly what you’re pointing at. Might make things simpler if you’re not confident of your aim. What were you firing?”
“Um … you mean the shells? Just shot.”
“Right,” Anna said. “Well, what we’re giving you is going to be a little different.” She lifted up one of the boxes of ammunition and popped the thin, cardboard top, exposing the orange shells. “These fire flechettes rather than shot. Think a cloud of tiny, aerodynamic, serrated razor-blades. Slices an enemy to ribbons. There’s some chaff mixed in for good measure, but the main goal with one of these is to cut whatever you shoot at into a pile of hamburger. You’ve seen Jake use them. But rather than blow a hole in something if you fire this, you’re going to cut one. Got it?” She waited for another nod before she moved on.
“Okay. You load the gun like this—” The loading port snapped open with a metallic click, and she mimed sliding a shell into the waiting aperture. “The only thing you have to worry about is which end goes forward, but that’s pretty self-explanatory.” The large arrows along the side of the shell didn’t hurt either. “Like a Slugger, it’s a magnetic-assist feed, so it’s hard to jam this thing or screw something up. As long as you get the shell pointed in there the right way, it’ll handle the rest.”
“Something worth noting about this design,” she said, angling the weapon so that Botha could see the open loading port. “You close this port? The weapon is ready to fire. Snapping the port shut chambers a round. However, if the port is open but a round is already in the chamber, the gun can still be fired, and the feed will engage to try and load another round. This means that if the load port is open, you can feed it shells as quickly as you want and keep firing, as long as you don’t screw the timing up and fire when you don’t have at least one shell in the magazine. Or stick your fingers too far in; let the mag-assist do the job, not your fingers.”
“The catch is that this means the magazine is technically minus one shell the moment you close it,” Anna continued, eyeing Botha to make sure the woman was paying close attention. “So if the magazine is empty like it is now, and you load it with a full complement of shells—that’s nine, by the way—the moment you close the port …” She snapped the opening shut with an audible snap. “One round is chambered, ready to fire. Which means you’ve got an open space in the magazine. Now, you can open and close the feed as many times as you want with a round in the chamber—it’s not going to try and force another round in there with one loaded—so a common way to load this thing is to load the nine shells, then pop the port closed and open again to load the final shell. With one in the chamber, that gives you ten shots before you have to repeat the process. Clear?”
“Yes,” Botha said, nodding once more. “Is there any reason why you should close the feed at all?”
“To keep crap out of it,” Anna said, closing up the weapon with a sharp snap. “To protect moving parts. All the usual reasons. You don’t have to put ten shells in there if you don’t want to. Nine will work.” She tapped the grip. “Also, I don’t know if you used something similar when you were a student, but … Hold this.” She handed Botha the gun, watching as the corner of her security suit’s visor flashed.
“Neat,” Botha said, looking at the ammo readout as it flashed red at her. “We had something like this we used once or twice.”
“Good. It’ll help you keep track of how many shots you have left. My advice? Load whenever you have the opportunity. Beats running out of shots at the wrong moment.” She mimed for Botha to pass the weapon back to her, and the zoologist acquiesced.
“One last, very important note,” she said, hefting the Rezzer once more. “Safety. The moment this gun is loaded and that feed port closed, it is ready to fire and ready to kill someone. All the regular rules of weapon usage apply, starting with the gun is always loaded and ending on don’t point this at anything you’re not trying to kill and finger off the trigger until you’re going to shoot. The safety switch is right here,” she said, tapping the switch. “Both sides, same deal as the Slugger, so you know how to use it. Shoot one of us by accident, and I will be very pissed off. Then we’ll probably die.” She passed the Rezzer back to her. “Use wisely. It’s yours now. Get familiar with it. Shells are on the bench. It’ll dock on your back for when you need it, or you can bring a strap and carry it that way if you want.”
“Strap,” Botha said almost without hesitation.
“Third drawer down,” Anna said, tapping the workbench. “Your side.”
“Siyabongo,” Botha said, tugging the drawer open and pulling out a tightly wound strap. “What else?”
“What else?”
Botha looked up at her. “Yeah. This isn’t the only gun you’re giving me, right?”
“You’re getting a Slugger,” Anna said. “And that.” She motioned in the direction of the Rezzer.
“I can handle a rifle,” Botha said quickly. “I know how to use one.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “But how?”
“What?”
“How have you handled a rifle? When you’ve used one?”
“I … Well, like anyone else handles a rifle—” Botha began, but Anna shook her head.
“No. When you’ve used a rifle, what has the shot been like? How are you shooting?”
“Oh,” Botha said, eyes going wide. “I see. Well …” She shrugged. “Like anyone else uses a rifle. It was either to scare off game, or when we were specifically hunting something—”
“In other words, snap shots at range that weren’t meant to hit, or slow stalking,” Anna said.
“Well …”
“And that’s why you’re getting a Rezzer and a Slugger. That?” She pointed at the close-range rifle sitting by her armor. “That’s a knock-off combat carbine. Not a hunting rifle. It’s designed for rapid, close-to-mid range acquisition of targets and tight, accurate fire. Do you have any experience with the discipline that kind of shooting requires?”
Botha shook her head. “No. I don’t.”
Anna nodded. “That’s what I expected. It’s not required. But that’s why you’re getting the Rezzer. You’re familiar with it—or at least that type of weapon.” She shot a glance at the central display, her eyes snapping to the clock. “Any other questions?”
“No.”
“Good.” She gave the zoologist a nod. “Then load up. Oh, and wrap some brightly-colored tape around your wrists and shoulders. That way I’ll be able to tell you and Jake apart. There should be some bonding tape in one of the drawers. Just, you know, don’t tape yourself into the suit.”
Botha nodded, and Anna stepped away, satisfied that at least the prep had gone well. A quick look showed that Jake was fully prepped as well, and making a last-minute check of the hab’s defensive network. Which meant that as soon as Botha was loaded and ready to go, the team would be waiting on her.
Time to gear up. Her hands went to work, slapping composite armor plating into place atop her skinsuit and occasionally shifting something when the slightly-damaged components didn’t want to play nice. The motions were quick and practiced, and in just under two minutes—a time that mostly signified she wasn’t in a hurry—she was busily setting the last piece into place atop her shin and securing it with a quick tape wrap when, as expected, the link between her skinsuit and the plate failed to initialize. The action brought forth a quiet sigh.
One skinsuit and one set of armor, effectively junked, she thought as she dropped her leg back to the floor and began arming herself. One FOX-9 for each hip. The CQC-rifle went back over her shoulders, the grip within easy reach of her right arm—though with the suit’s temperamental functionality, there was a risk that she’d find herself unable to draw it. The thrower, once loaded with a green fuel tank, went on her other shoulder blade. She double-checked that her knife was in its sheath, loaded her armor up with spare ammunition—almost as much of it as she could carry, then turned her attention to the last two pieces of equipment lying on the table. One was her helmet, the boxy and weighty comm unit sticking out of the top, and she plucked it up and slid it down over her head, neck seals closing and faint warning alerts flashing as her visor came to life.
The other piece of equipment was one of two the team would be carrying, though hers was the superior model. The ripper was a simple-looking device, looking almost like a rugged, militaristic phone, though with a smaller screen. They were remarkably durable, dedicated to one use, and one use only: Connected to any sort of data-storage that could be accessed and used by the ripper’s versatile nanite-interface, the data-thief would immediately become a data sponge, soaking up any and all information it came across indiscriminately. A favored tool for salvage crews, thieves, and most especially anyone who was thinking of executing a “smash and grab” operation.
Which made it all the more strange that the armory had been home to a second, less-capable model. Whether it had been part of the hab’s original inventory or something that had simply made its way into the armory over time like her comm unit had, it was good to know that they’d be departing with two of them rather than one. Just in case.
Always worth it to have a backup, Anna thought as she slipped the ripper into the last open pouch on her suit. She took a final look at the empty workbench, checked her suit, and then nodded. Ready to go.
“I’m ready,” she said, turning toward the door. “Jake?”
“Ready,” he said, lifting his Rezzer and sliding in into place on his back. “Botha?”
“I … uh … Just a second.” There was a metallic snap as she closed a soft pouch on her armor, and she patted it with one hand. “Okay,” she said, looking at them through her visor. “Ready to go.”
Anna nodded as she took in the colored yellow bands around the woman’s wrists and shoulders. “Good choice,” she said, turning for the door. “Let’s get moving.”
The three of them moved out, heading for the garage where the skimmer was waiting for them. No one stopped them along the way—everyone else was likely busy in their labs, and it wasn’t as though anyone needed to show them out. They could call once they were ready to go and let the commander know.
“Last chance to back out,” Jake said as Anna stepped into the garage airlock. When she glanced at him, he let out a chuckle.
“Relax,” he said as he followed her into the airlock, his suit clicking against her armor as they both made room for Botha. The small airlock was crowded between the three of them, but not so tightly that they couldn’t get the door shut. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“All the same, I’d rather you not give ideas to Botha,” Anna said as the airlock sealed with a hiss. “She starts thinking that this is optional, and we might be doing this job solo. She’d probably rather be learning more about that corpse anyway.”
“You’re not wrong,” Botha said, her voice quiet in the confined space. “But short of genetic work, I’ve pretty much exhausted what I can learn from that first body.”
