* * *
We go up through the orange and red storm clouds above, and then into clear air. The Sun is out and shining, and golden cloud fields stretch away as far as the eye can see. My fuel is running low, so it’s a good thing the evac ship is hovering nearby.
The ship is a 100m Harris-class search and rescue craft. The rectangular hull is based on the earlier VC-12 transports and is also powered by four fusion ramjets, currently blasting straight downward, keeping it in a steady hover. Running on a hydrogen atmosphere that is both propellant and fusion fuel, ships like this can stay aloft, theoretically, for up to a Jovian year.
I get the permission to land and fly overhead while one of the four large ventral hatches opens up. As I land in the cavernous landing bay, there’s already a space-suited emergency team ready to take Larry away on a stretcher and to service my frame for any damage.
They quickly whisk Larry away through an airlock before my thrusters have a chance to cool or the ventral doors have even closed. Then, as the hatch seals, another team steps forward to work on my Guardian.
I try to tell them my Guardian is fine, and this can wait, but no, they insist on following procedure in an emergency, and work to make sure my exo-frame is safe. I request to leave my Guardian to go along with Larry and see that he’s okay, but no, they have to make sure my Guardian is safe to exit first, and that it won’t blow up before they can let oxygen into the chamber or open the doors for me to get out.
There’s nothing to do but wait.
Griff is already running a full diagnostic check and sending the data to the technicians out there. Data indicates there’s some minor dents and dings on the armor (probably from all the chaff and simulated shrapnel I flew though) and I put a lot of wear on the primary engine and the maneuvering thrusters trying to hold onto another Guardian. Fuel is going to have to be replaced, of course.
Fire suppressants are being sprayed over my frame as well. It helps hide all the scratches that have scoured away the variable camouflage and stealth coating. It also hides the cartoon on the chest—a snarling griffon’s head smoking a stogie. Everyone has their own nose art, which is actually on the chest. It’s a function of the smart nanotech-camouflage on the surface, not something painted on, so it normally disappears once camo and stealth go live.
Eventually they’re done, and they tag my frame with an indicator that shows up whenever it comes up on a file or when someone sees it with their augmented vision. The yellow “Service” indicator means I won’t be taking Griff out for a ride until it’s been serviced further and inspected. I’m grounded for a while. I walk Griff over to the rack on the walls, various arms and clamps come out, and they secure my frame before I shut it down.
The frontal glacis lifts up with a mental command. The pilot’s compartment is behind the heaviest armor in the chest, of course. There’s no way anyone would ever have their own head inside the frame’s head anymore—that’s all filled with sensors and comm systems, and the neck is a weak point in a frame, no matter how good the armor is. Same thing for the limbs. All the space in the limbs is taken up with structural supports and magneto-muscular fibers, and no one wants their real arm torn off in a near miss.
From the outside, the Guardian looks like an unstoppable metal monster. Five meters tall, vaguely humanoid, studded with weapons systems and sensor clusters, and the folded wings that give flying exo-frames their “Angel” moniker. The long metal vanes covering the wings aren’t actually feathers—they’re for fine, individual, computerized control of the variable wing surface in flight, and there’s a micro-thruster under each one for even finer flight control. They’re certainly intimidating in person, and I wouldn’t want to face one in anything short of another Guardian or mag-tank.
Still, for all their tough appearance, they can be pretty vulnerable. There’s no way to support the kind of armor a proper mag-tank or other armored vehicle has for the same size. All the joints, limbs, and wings present big targets that can’t be heavily armored, either. A humanoid vehicle like this can’t carry the kind of firepower dedicated space-artillery can, or even a mag-tank or space fighter. While they can fly, even the fastest exo-frames can’t match a space-fighter drone for speed, maneuverability, or range—and never will. Even with cybernetic augmentation and the high-gravity-tolerant Jovian pilots, a computer can take more gravities and react faster, and that’s before the loss of effectiveness of putting arms and legs on a fighting machine.
So, with all those disadvantages—why do it? Why spend a fortune building machines—and training men to use them—that just aren’t as good as all the other specialized fighting platforms at what they do?
Because, even if an exo-frame isn’t as good as any of those other weapons systems at what they do, it can perform any of their roles, to an extent, and in almost any theoretical environment or condition. What an exo-frame offers—specifically one of the Angel models—is flexibility.
The whole thing was an outgrowth of power-armor, initially. Designers kept putting on heaver armor, heavier weapons, while also adding jump and then flight systems, and then larger power systems to make the whole thing work. All that meant larger and more powerful frames to carry it all. The earliest exo-frames not considered power armor were
