Incursion Vector

044

[â–²] INS Andronicus, Roarke Ordinance Magazine

"Charge up!"

Stepping back to inspect his work Vincent nodded at the petty officer in charge of bringing him his retrofit parts. The 332 had mainly been operating in low- to normal-gravity environments for the entire tour, but the Churaumi op was shaping up to be a radically different deployment. For one, the logistics people were prepping everyone for a possible hydro assault, which meant refitting all their armor with alternate modules engineered to operate in the high external pressure of deep ocean environments.

It was kind of a relief that the two months he had spent during boot camp fumbling around in the freezing waters of subsurface Europa and loading and unloading into his armor while at the bottom of Earth's Mariana Trench weren't going completely to waste. The real trick would be getting through whatever orbital defenses the aliens had rigged up around the planet. Aside from the stunt they had pulled on their burnout from RM 857 there wasn't a lot of options a ship full of Infantrymen in powered armor had to take out orbital defenses—and Vincent himself would like very much if he never found himself in that situation again.

He'd heard rumors there was going to be one of the top-secret top-of-the-line strike carriers involved, ones that carried flights of marines trained for plowing pathways straight through orbital defenses, but he'd believe it when he saw it. Despite being carried around the galaxy on the Andronicus he never had much contact with the marines stationed on the ship. They were recognizable by their gray uniforms and the fact they always wore hats, but that was about all he knew about the three flights other than the fact their lowest member outranked even the 332's commanding officer.

Why Infantry personnel didn't get an automatic promotion to officer when they passed their powered armor qualifications had always been a mystery to Vincent. Then again, one marauder cost about as much all his platoon's armor rigs and the ammunition they burned through in a year's worth of operations, so they were, according to the budget at least, slightly more expendable.

"Green across the board, Salz," reported the petty officer as the last of his diagnostics came back matching the required specs for the op that had been handed down earlier in the day. "You want to run a lap?"

"Nah, power it down, Kip. They'll probably switch the loadouts again tomorrow and we'll get to do this all over again."

"Too true."

Like a metal golem settling in for hibernation his armor systematically powered down, starting at the feet and working up to the torso, lowering itself into its dormant squat with its three-fingered fists bunched up on either side of its feet.

The petty officer handed him the diagnostic computer and he pressed his thumb to the scanner to verify he had inspected his gear. "Who else you got left?"

Kip scrolled through a few screens, brown eyes flitting from inventory list to inventory list. "Just Roswell and the LT, but the LT told me to hold his until the surgeon gave him the all-clear. Still doesn't trust me to rig it."

"Roswell needs to learn how to do this on her own," said Vincent. "Hold hers too and make her do the inspection herself. She'll be off medical at 0800 tomorrow. And the LT doesn't even trust me to rig his suit, so I wouldn't get upset over that."

"Sure thing." After a brief pause he asked, "The rover really land on her head?"

"Rover and two hab units, yeah," confirmed Vincent. "Why?"

With a shrug the man replied, "New drops usually don't think about rigging for a top-down impact. Everyone always thinks they're going to take their biggest hits to the face or the ass. 'Crushed to death' doesn't get on the list of nasty ways they might die until they see it happen to someone else."