The Future Is Closer Than You Think

by Zaslow Crane

  “Hah!” he thought. Not in the next few months!

  Damn.

  He circled around carefully and picked up no more fire. He I.M.’d: “I’m almost there @ their position. Do not - REPEAT

  - DO NOT fire!”

  Somebody replied with an I.M.’d “smiley face.”

  Hadda be Chet, the joker. He shook his head , chuckled quietly and grinned a little. He keyed his nightvision back on. “Asshole!” He grinned as he whispered to himself. Always fucking around, that Chet.

  Then, in an instant, he was at the Gas Soldiers’ position!

  There was a pitted stone wall! No wonder we couldn’t get at these guys sooner! He thought. It must be a hundred years old! Solid as hell!

  There was one guy close. He was lying still. His reddish hair was spilled out onto the trodden, soaked grass. His helmet, destroyed by a fusillade of bullets that lay nearby.

  Was he dead? He looked dead, but he’d been trained to take no chances. Bez withdrew his knife from a sleeve sheath and plunged it all the way to the hilt into he supine solider’s exposed throat.

  “If he wasn’t dead, he is now.”

  He crab-walked another ten-fifteen meters and found another one. This one was alive, but hurt badly. That must have been the sobbing they’d heard mixed with the rain—the fucking downpour!

  There were four body wounds that he could see, not to mention the wounds on the extremities. His lighter camo suit was stained red. The suit, like the General Mills SOA’s registered the colors for camouflage. But his SOA “thought” that he was in a new, red environment. It began to match the color of his blood.

  “Weird.”

  Lucky they don’t wear the same weight body armor as we have.

  This other army had long ago opted for faster moving, lighter armed troops for the most part. So the armor that they did have couldn’t take the same degree of abuse.

  Also, Bez noted with interest, the suit didn’t even know that this guy was almost dead yet. Not very sophisticated. Not like my SOA, he thought, beginning, just beginning to become possessive of his new armored suit.

  My suit would be shutting down and prepping to self-demo, he thought grimly; If my vitals were as low as this guys vitals must be!

  His tongue probed another of the four molar keys he and every other General Mills Consortium new soldier had imbedded in his mouth.

  There was one on the inside of each of the four quadrants. All on the inside edge of his back teeth. This one switched on the radio.

  Their radios were for short to medium range, to be used like an intercom to keep everyone on the same page. They didn’t worry about interception or jamming because every second, the transmitter shifted randomly to another freq. This way, they could talk without being overheard.

  Now that it was quiet, we can talk again, he thought. They still wanted to be pretty quiet this close to a Gas Cartel regional fuel dump. There could be kites with ears out.

  Kites could fly in all quiet-like and drop a ‘puter guided bomb into your hip pocket and be gone before you even knew what hit you! Though they probably wouldn’t be out on a night like this. The rain would fuck with their guidance programs. He sure hoped that was the case anyway.

  He looked up involuntarily into the water laden sky just the same.

  Can’t see anything. Too dark! Why am I even looking!? Geez. Look at how paranoid I’ve become! Damn!

  He keyed his mike: “Hey Sarge. This guy’s hurt pretty bad…”

  “The med/doc is in a broke-down Hummer a couple of miles from here, back near the LZ. I ain’t draggin’ him back. And I ain’t leavin’ him here to call in friends.”

  “Yeah…?” Bez knew what was coming..

  “…Ah dammit. Finish him. He can’t have any better intel than we got. And we’d have to save his ass in order to gossip with that fine young fellow. I’m not risking us and the mission to chitchat with him.”

  “You sure? I can’t bring him back to life if you change your mind…”

  The click of the reply took an extra beat: “Yeah…Do it.”

  Bez had learned early on that it was better to do a thing like this quickly, without thinking. It only got more difficult if you thought about it.

  On the other hand, this sonobitch had made eye contact with him. He couldn’t just knife him. The bleeding solider sobbed in pain and the knowledge of what was to come.

  “Please! Oh dammit it hurts. Please!”

  Bez thought: Please? Please what? Kill me and put me out of my misery? Or Please don’t kill me, even though I was gonna kill you? Whathefuck?

  All that took place in about two seconds. He swung his gun down and pumped another few rounds into him. The muzzle flash was drowned by the rain, which also muffled the report somewhat. That was good in case there were more unfriendlies around….

  The enemy solider moved no longer; pleaded no further. He was, as good as anyway, Bez thought. He shouldered his gun. Except for the rain pounding down, it was now quiet.

  As Bez walked back to what was left of his unit, he thought about wars of old. – In the past, the firefight that he was just in would have left ten or twenty pounds of brass spewed around the forest, counting all seven participants in the skirmish.

  He’d heard of lots of guys in the Nam who were tracked by the trail of brass their M16’s left behind. He’d heard tell that was how his Granddad had bought it.

  He spat in frustration.

  That was almost eighty years ago. So fuckin long ago! The instant he spat, he regretted it. He’d heard rumors of DNA sniffers that were “combat-i-sized.”

  They could tell all about him from one drop of spittle hanging on a leaf. You couldn’t even go into the forest with a fucking cold anymore, or they’ll track you, find you and fuck you up! He thought dejectedly. Things are so complicated now.

  But they won’t get much tonight. He breathed a sigh of relief. It’s still coming down, like to flood the place!

  He hefted his Bando, the belt of clips specially designed to plug into a rapidly firing weapon without jamming it.

  “Neither rain, nor sleep, nor even fuckin’ salt water…” he mused. Then, he repositioned it on his shoulder. Plastic bullets or not. This thing was still pretty heavy!

  The General Mills armorer had long ago switched over to bullets jacketed in a special plastic that melted and became the back part of the slug, stabilizing it as it left the barrel. So there was no brass to track!

  The other benefit was weight. In weather like this Bez thanked God that he didn’t have to carry all that brass jacketed ammo; the PlasAmmo was way lighter!

  He walked upright back to the berm. He hoped that he could find it quickly in the darkness and downpour.

  “Me comin’ in, Babes!” Bez muttered over & over into the Comm system. “No Mater! No Tirar! (Don’t shoot! Don’t kill me!) Friendly comin’ in!”

  Suddenly, he was back among his comrades. It was odd how quickly he’d gotten back to the group. They’d remained dug-in, in case there was some unexpected trouble, so he knew that they wouldn’t come up and meet him.

  “Was that only about 20 meters?!”

  He was incredulous.

  Shit! They should have dusted anyone that close!

  When the firing started, he hadn’t even thought to tongue the rangefinder button. He guessed that no one else thought of it either—it all happened so fast.

  All these new mods in their bodies; their teeth; the ‘trodes in their skulls…All that tek, and no one thought of it? Not even Cap? He thought tiredly; Disappointing.

  Do we really even need a suit o’ armor like this? What was wrong with his “Old Solid?” It had gelled armor. That was good, wasn’t it?

  Bez worried about being the first to test it out in combat, but Bez, being Bez, he would worry about being second, or third, until it was the standard. Bez was the cautious type. He wanted to see his ninos again. He wanted to see his esposa, too! He wanted to see them soon!

  Right now, they nee
ded to look for a spot to lick their wounds and get their heads back on straight. Hopefully it’d be someplace dry, or at least not muddy.

  By now Cap had joined them, and they held a plas sheet shield over their group as they swapped fortified jerky and held the rain off the map.

  The maps were waterproof, but it was discovered subsequently to the purchase of a few million of ‘em that while the water won’t damage them per se, they were very susceptible to mildew and rot if they’re not rigorously dried.

  There was a little joking, but basically those Gassies had caught us with our pants down.

  Bez shook his head and took a plug of jerky from Sarge.

  If we’d faced a couple more guys or heavier small arms…Well, all five of us would be dead now.

  “This had already been a fucked mission.”

  “Yeah.”

  The rain made a loud staccato right above their heads.

  They’d lost five yesterday at the LZ while the hummer was getting damaged. They didn’t even know what had hit them. One minute they were waving g’bye to the “shuttle,” and getting up and gettin out—the next there was a rain of fire and death!

  Mines of some sort, maybe. But our units should have detected them…Bez imagined.

  Bez was suspicious of his new suit. Why hadn’t it warned them of mines or whatever it was that aced all his buds. There was a landmine warning function that was supposed to always be running. Why had it not alerted him? – All of them? They all had the same SOA’s!

  It couldn’t have been any kite he’d ever heard of—too much firepower. Kites were small: one kite—one kill. There was no scream of incoming, so, not a missile or cannon slug. So it had to be booby traps of some sort.

  Cap had found something on the SatMap. There was a structure of some sort about a klick away and 20 degrees off their course.

  When they got there, they were amazed to find that the roof was still good. It looked like an old, very old picnic shelter. It was a cabin without walls. It even had a fireplace, not that they’d dare start a fire. Besides, they all had their Honeywell Heat’rs. They gave off a huge amount of heat with negligible lumens for the sniffers to locate.

  Essential for their mission tonight. Don’ want to advertise we’re here! thought Chato dejectedly. He too had lost friends at the LZ debacle.

  As he thought this, he stretched out in front of two heat’rs— his and Chets. Chet had set them both for “omni-directional,” and stretched out on the otherside.

  Cap said, “Dry out quick an’ put ‘em away. I don’t wanna get found by somebody wandering around with a therma scan! All they’d have to do would be to call in a few rounds of cannon slugs or a smart missile, and we’d all be meat!”

  What passed for a salute in the General Mills Army was returned to him, and he smiled and turned to his maps.

  They were less than 20 klicks from their target. Sarge carried most of the timers, detonators and C-11 explosive, but each solider also had a small cache that they were responsible for: Just in case.

  Chet, Bez and Chato took care to dry out their weapons; their ammo; and any fabric that could take on any “h2-OH.”

  There was a shitload of h2-OH coming down just a few feet away, and the rain made so much noise that they couldn’t use their audio sensors to scan for non-friendlies.

  They’d all unplugged as soon as they could, taking off their helmets and “ear protection.” Nothing sounded right in those things but their weapons—especially the over/under was so loud, that the General Mills Minister of War worried he’d have a bunch of deaf soldiers out there. You were worthless without your hearing. More to the point, you were dead without your hearing.

  “Chato? Ain’t you dry yet?!” Sarge asked. What he was really saying was: “You heard the Cap. Turn the godamn Heat’r off!”

  The guys sat around taking slurps from the Military Issue “Whack its,” the meal encased in two envelopes. One held the meal, the other held two smaller chemicals that when whacked would burst and mix. When they mixed they created a chain reaction. Heat was generated. The meal was heated up!

  They had Tacos, Ensenada Style, or a perennial Military Favorite, Chipped beef on toast, or Shit-on-shingle as it’s been known for more than a hundred years. There were other choices but all were what passed for MRE’s these days. It didn’t taste like much, but you felt better after eating it. That was something. It warmed you…

  And, they did feel a little better. They were dryer, they had eaten, and for the moment, they were safe.

  Chato and Bez were buddies since boot camp. They sat next to one another and complained about their food. That took up the first few minutes of the dining experience. After that, there was a pause in the conversation. Most of the guys were chewing, so talking was hushed, whispered, sporadic.

  When they began gathering up their degradable “plates” the talking began again. Bez tossed them into the biodegradable baggie and tossed in the catalyst. It’d be gone for all intents & purposes by morning. Only really hi-end sniffers could find that residue!

  So, the next item in a solider’s list of priorities was gossip. They eased into it, but Chato made the first real foray into significant gossip, “Hey, vatos, you know what I heard? I heard a rumore that the Gassies have perfected the P-bomb! That could be bad….”

  “Je-Sus, Chato. We’ve been hearing rumors about the Pulse Bomb for over a year. Donchathink they’d a used it if they had it?” “Yeah, but the E.M.P. would be readable by our satellites,

  and we’d know if they’d ever used it…”

  “What if tonight was the first time, Babes?”

  It was round-robin gossip time.

  “Si’ pero…But if they did, I heard that they could drop it

  right into a firefight and set it off, and except for their guys who

  were real close, it wouldn’t hurt any of them….”

  “…And, it’d fry the electronics in our suits! I know! But

  Chato, if they have it why are they holding back?”

  Bez jumped in, “Besides, it’d still fry their electronics too….” Chato would not be deterred.

  “Si but look at our suits. Now look at theirs. Their suits

  don’t do much, but if they stop functioning…Quien sabe? Maybe

  they have problems, maybe no.”

  Sarge tried to stop this unhealthy thinking.

  “But..”

  “Just a minute, Sarge. But if our suits are totally shut down,

  it’d take at least two whole mins for a complete reboot from

  scratch. Two minutes we’d be standing there. No movement.

  Maybe no movement at all! No hiding. No shooting back.Nada.

  And that’s if we weren’t close. If we were close, the electronics

  would be fried, permanent-like!”

  “Gentlemen, I suggest that we utilize this time checking our

  equipment, not waste it speculating about things we can neither

  really know about, nor prepare for.” Cap spoke in a clipped

  manner, as if words were rationed and he didn’t want to run out

  of syllables too soon.

  “Right, Cap.” Sarge was relieved that Cap had stepped in.

  They were in enemy territory, and morale was an important

  commodity. It needed to be saved and nurtured, not whittled at

  like this crew was doin’!

  Cap dug out his “combat-i-zed” P/Pilot from his fanny pack. The gossip session ceased abruptly and each guy took a

  smaller p’pilot from their ‘packs, and keyed them on from

  sleepmode.

  Every solider had his Hard Drive and the most important

  electronics in armored, or “combat-i-sized” fanny packs, affixed

  to the small of their backs.

  This was the place least likely to be damaged by errant fire.

  There’d been stories about guys in firefights lying prone, with

  a tek/medic working o
n his ‘pack while he was returning fire!

  When there’s nothing else to talk about, there’s always these

  “military legends”…Gossip, or in Spanglish, “rumores” abound! “Okay! Listen up,” Cap restarted his conversation. “I’m

  getting error messages from almost all your packs. There isn’t

  one that’s working perfect, but Chet, yours is the least fucked,

  so, we’ll look at yours last. You’re on sentry. But don’t leave the

  enclosure. Stay close.”

  “Right, Cap.”

  “If I don’t get the vitals/com/self-destruct/servos all working

  to within parameters, we’re gonna have to turn around! Then,

  Fletch, David, Covina and the others were offed for nothing. So,

  listen-up. Initiate a “level two diagnostic,” on my mark…now.” Soldiers gloved fingers clumsily operated keypads that were

  essentially too small, but through practiced routines, they all

  had completed their inputting in a few seconds.

  Now they waited. It could take a minute or five. You never

  knew. New tek was fucked. Not like the old SOA’s. They were a

  quick read, every time!

  It was important that the vitals registered with Cap’s unit.

  They’d all taken oaths to not allow the suit o’ armor to fall into

  enemy hands, and so if their vitals dropped to below sub-par,

  Cap was empowered to initiate a permanent complete shutdown.

  In regular words: Self-Demo.

  For the same reason, everyone wanted their vitals to register

  properly. What a bitch if the scans said you were dying and you

  were really fine, but Cap didn’t know you were fine. Then, he’d

  blow the SOA with you still in it!

  The servos had to work properly or a solider’d have to lift

  the entire weight of that arm or leg to walk or shoot or run, and

  the average guy would be exhausted in minutes! Somebody all

  beefed-up like Chato would last a little longer, but not much. They’d all used the GPS recently, so they knew that that at

  least worked. Just the same that’ll be inoperable for the time

  that the diagnostic was running!