As Jurascik and Connors ran the launch-sim diagnostics, the colonel helped Ockerman and Hylander examine every bolt and weld on the gantry frame. They had just about completed the painstaking work when a Shadow female appeared at the far end of the street. Naked except for ragged boots, she walked closer, paused, then fell into a wild, hip-churning dance.
Captain Connors’s voice filled Gabhart’s helmet. “Well, at least some of the natives are friendly.”
“She does look glad to see us,” Ockerman agreed.
“I hope she’s got a brother,” Jurascik said.
“Yeah, sometimes moves like that run in families,” Connors said.
“Or not, as in the case of yours,” the biochemist said.
The grid map reappeared before Gabhart’s eyes. One of the squares blinked in red. Out of their direct line of sight, a pod of laser mines had been tripped.
“Key 42,” Gabhart said.
His battlesuit responded by playing a recording of events that had taken place just seconds before a lime-green light show, complete with sound. In slow motion, the mines’ laser beams passed through thehumanoids as if they were made of smoke.
Of course, smoke never sizzled like that.
Appearances to the contrary, the laser mine was one of the most merciful killers in the team’s arsenal. In about a second, it produced surprise, pain, oblivion. The antipersonnel system subunits launched in unison, flying in precise formation for 1.3 seconds. With perfectly synchronized rotations, their firing lasers and reflectors created a narrow zone of absolute destruction. When the subunits fell back to the ground, the impact automatically rearmed them for the next jump. Once dispersed in the field, the computer-linked mines never needed service or refueling. They operated via their own threat-level analysis program, based on input from automated, sight, chemical and sound surveillance.
In other words, they were perpetual death machines.
Gabhart declined the replay option and the inside of his visor cleared. Down the street, the naked female still gyrated gleefully.
The crack of a rifle shot from behind made the colonel stiffen. Before he could turn to face the source, the bullet had sailed harmlessly past him. Using an infrared scan, he quickly located the shooter crouching in the rubble 90 meters past the end of the street. When Gabhart cranked the visor’s magnification up to eight-power, he saw the middle-aged Shadow male taking aim again. He noted the weapon’s crude telescopic sight.
Then the muzzle winked at him.
Thanks to the sensory enhancements of the battle-suit, Gabhart could actually see the bullet in flight. In his visual array, it appeared as a bright red dot circled in brilliant yellow. Beside the display, three sets of numbers scrolled.
Projectile caliber 7.62 mm.
Projectile speed 860 meters per second, and falling.
Distance to impact 30 meters, and falling.
Twenty meters from impact, the battlesuit automatically triggered a narrow-band deflection pulse of roughly a terawatt. The colonel felt nothing whatsoever. Like magic, the rifle slug simply seemed to curve around him, and as it did, its whine abruptly dropped in pitch.
As the entire team watched, the shooter fired his weapon again, with the same result. Gabhart wondered how long it would take for him to wise up to the fact that he could fire ten thousand bullets, burn out that rifle barrel and still never come close to the target. Though the artificially intelligent body armor was by no means a perfect defense in every situation, it could handle dozens upon dozens of incoming projectiles at onceprojectiles of up to 40 mm.
Evidence notwithstanding, the shooter stubbornly persisted, preparing to fire once more.
“He’s outside of our AP perimeter, Colonel,” Hylander said. “Should we just ignore him?”
“No, I’d better go collect him,” Gabhart said, “before he damages something important.”
The colonel trotted over to the windowless black gyroplane. At the touch of his gauntleted hand on its side, a panel slid back, revealing the cramped, two-seat cockpit. Gabhart climbed into the front seat, which immediately inflated and deflated in places, conforming to fit the shape of his body. When that process was complete, the door panel swished shut and red interior lights came on, allowing him to locate the coupler for the gyroplane’s onboard computer. Once he connected his suit’s umbilical, the red rights and the blacked-out windows vanished. Both pilot and pilot’s seat floated in space. Gabhart had an unobstructed view in all directions. An illusion, of course. The world outside the aircraft’s black skin was being optically scanned by numerous sensors, and after the irrelevant details were filtered out, the end product was projected onto the inside of his visor.