Kane ran his gloved fingers over the joints of his black polycarbonate body armor, making certain all the seals were secure. The armor was close fitting, molded to conform to the biceps, triceps, pectorals and abdomen. Even with its Kevlar undersheathing, the armor was lightweight and provided no loose folds to snag on projections. The only spot of color anywhere on it was the small, disk-shaped badge of office emblazoned on the left pectoral. It depicted, in crimson, a stylized, balanced scales of justice, superimposed over a nine-spoked wheel.
Kane knew it was designed to symbolize the Magistrate’s oath to keep the wheels of justice turning, but to his mind it was nothing more than a target. To chill-crazy blastermen, all it said was, “Shoot here.”
Raising his right forearm, he inspected the Sin Eater holstered there. It was a big-bore automatic handblaster, less than fourteen inches in length at full extension, the magazine carrying twenty 9 mm rounds. When not in use, the stock folded over the top of the blaster, lying along the frame, reducing its holstered length to ten inches.
When the Sin Eater was needed, Kane would tense his wrist tendons, and sensitive actuators activated a flexible cable in the holster and snapped the weapon smoothly into his waiting hand, the stock unfolding in the same motion. Since the Sin Eater had no trigger guard or safety, the blaster fired immediately upon touching his crooked index finger.
It was a murderous weapon and almost impossible for a novice to manage. Recruits were never allowed live ammunition until a tedious six-month-long training period was successfully completed.
Attached to his belt by a magnetic clip was his close-assault weapon. The Copperhead was a chopped-down autoblaster, gas operated, with a 700-round-per minute rate of fire. The magazine held fifteen rounds of 4.85 mm steel-jacketed bullets. Two feet in length, the grip and trigger unit were placed in front of the breech, allowing for one-handed use. An optical image-intensifier scope was fitted on top, as well as a laser autotargeter. Because of its low recoil, the Copperhead could be fired in a long, devastating full-auto burst.
Kane lowered his right hand to touch the familiar handle of the fourteen-inch-long combat knife scabbarded in his boot. Honed to a razor-keen cutting edge, it was also balanced for throwing, although only a fool would throw a knife in hand-to-hand combat. If a Magistrate was down to his blade, then tossing it made him weaponless and as good as dead.
From a hook on the back of his seat, Kane removed his helmet. Like the armor encasing his body, the helmet was made of black polycarbonate, and fitted over the upper half and back of his head, leaving only a portion of the mouth and chin exposed.
The helmet annoyed him, even though it was lightweight and its polystyrene lining conformed perfectly to the shape of his head, ensuring a snug and comfortable fit.
The slightly concave, red-tinted visor served several functions it protected the eyes from foreign particles, and the electro-chemical polymer was connected to a passive night sight that intensified ambient light to permit one-color night vision.
The tiny image-enhancer sensor mounted on the forehead of the helmet did not emit detectable rays, though its range was only twenty-five feet, even on a fairly clear night with strong moonlight.
Kane slipped the helmet on just as Grant did, both of them snapping the underjaw lock guards simultaneously. Glancing at Grant, Kane realized again that the design of the Magistrate armor served something beyond functional, practical reasons. His partner was now a symbol of awe, of fear. He looked bigger somehow. Strong, fierce, implacable.
When a man concealed his face and body beneath the black armor and the red visor, he became a fearsome figure, the anonymity adding to the mystique. There was another reason for the helmet and the exoskeleton, and it was a reason all Magistrates were aware of but never spoke about openly. When a man put on the armor, he was symbolically surrendering his identity to serve a cause of greater import than a mere individual life.
Kane’s father had chosen to smother his identity, as had his father before him. For that matter, all current Magistrates, the third generation, had exchanged personal hopes, dreams and desires for a life of service. It had been the only way to bring a degree of order to the anarchy of post-nukecaust America.