there reasonably fresh and well supplied, but without much armor. Or it can get you across the objective, with full armor and reduced supply. Or it can do both if, and only if, something else carries you to near the objective.
'It's also a guarantee that, if you wear it while setting up an ambush somewhere in the Caucasus, the enemy will smell it from a mile away and never come near you. So why bother? And if you think you can use it for a recon patrol, I'll also guarantee you that the enemy will hear it from half a mile away. So why bother?'
'Because with full armor and a winterizing pack it will keep me warm while hunting Canadian rebels in Northern Ontario?' Hamilton had suggested, one inquisitive finger in the air.
'Mister Hamilton,' Sergeant Webster had answered, 'there is no such thing as a 'Canadian.' There are Americans. Then there are imperial subjects. There are also rebels, allies, and enemies. No Canadians, however. Write yourself up for an eight and four: minor lack of judgment.'
Story of my life, Hamilton thought. Ask a question; get some time in the Area. Try to think and The thought was interrupted by the Area sergeant. 'Attention on the Area. The hour is over. Fall out and fall in on your company areas.'
Young Cadet John Hamilton, and many another, hastened to get on with something that passed for a more normal and fruitful life.
Why the fuck didn't I apply to Annapolis? I love boats. I grew up around boats. But nooo. Family tradition was Army and so I just had to follow along. Jackass.
'What will kill or take out an exoskeleton?' Webster asked rhetorically, after the class had taken seats. His finger pointed, 'Mr. Hamilton?'
'Kill the man wearing it, Sergeant.'
'How? Ms. Hodge.'
That cadet, cute, strawberry blonde and-Hamilton reluctantly admitted-probably tougher than he was, answered. 'Without armor, Master Sergeant, shooting the wearer in a vital organ is sufficient. Assuming armor is worn, however, the armor can be penetrated by a. 41-caliber or better uranium or tungsten discarding sabot projectile. The joints are subject to derangement by large explosive devices or near-impacting heavy artillery or mortar fire. The power pack can similarly be fractured or penetrated. This will also contaminate the exoskeleton such that it cannot again be worn short of depot level decontamination. If the enemy is very clever, and the situation on the ground very bad, it can be worn out of power-'
'At which point,' Webster interrupted, 'you will have made a present of some very expensive gear to some very bad people. Very good, Cadet Hodge.'
Hamilton leaned over and whispered in Hodge's ear, 'Ass kisser.'
'Better his than yours,' Hodge whispered back. ' He probably washes.'
Webster, more amused than anything, let the byplay go without comment. He continued with the lesson, 'The point is, however, that almost anything that will kill you in your bare skin can kill you while wearing the exoskeleton, even with maximum armor. It's just harder to do.
'However, unlike armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, the Exo allows the member of a unit to take maximum advantage of small bits of cover and concealment. It does not, individually, present as tempting and lucrative a target as a tracked vehicle carrying nine to twelve men. This is true even though at half a million IND'-Imperial New Dollars-'each, nine Exos cost slightly more than one infantry fighting vehicle. Men are not potatoes, after all. Their lives matter.'
Webster noticed Hodge fidgeting in her chair. 'You had a question, Ms. Hodge?'
'Not a question, Master Sergeant, just an observation. Whatever the cost, whatever the risks and whatever the downsides, the Exo makes sense for me because I'm a woman. Nothing else allows me to be a full equal of men in combat.'
'Not quite, Ms. Hodge,' Webster corrected. 'Because you're the bottleneck… not you, personally; I mean women are the bottleneck… in the production of the next generation, the Exo cannot reduce your overall value to that of a man.'
'God knows, I value you, sweetie,' Hamilton said, no longer in a whisper but at least sotto voce.
Webster's voice thundered, 'Mr. Hamilton, write yourself up for another eight and four: public display of affection.'
Grolanhei, Province of Affrankon, 2 Shawwal,
1530 AH (1 October, 2106)
' Jizya!' demanded Rashid, the tax gatherer, his fist pounding the old oaken table in the Minden's kitchen. But for his beak of a nose, the gatherer did not look noticeably different from the Nazranis . Rashid's ancestors had converted early and then married into the dominant group.
'But, sir,' Petra's father began to explain, 'the harvest has been bad this year. The early frost… the rain… '
'Silence, pig of an infidel!' The jizya is a head tax. It is flat. It is fixed.' Fixed by me. 'It makes no account of the piddling troubles Allah sends you filth to encourage you to give up your decayed and false faith.'
Seeing that Minden was still minded to dispute the collection, the tax gatherer's lip curled in a sneer. Cutting off further discussion, he said, 'You realize, do you not, that the jizya is what permits you the status of dhimmis? That without it, without the pact, the dhimma , we are in a state of war, of holy war, of jihad with you and yours? That your lives are forfeit? Your property forfeit?'
'But… please, sir… '
Being inside the walls of her own home, Petra was uncovered. Neither she, nor her mother, had anticipated the arrival of the taxman today. Indeed, they'd all been so distraught and overworked with the gathering of the very skimpy harvest, they'd not thought of much of anything but how they were going to eke out an existence over the winter. They had to hope others had had better luck this year. If it was a question of letting the Nazrani farmers eat, or taking the food to feed their own, the masters had no compunction about letting filthy Nazrani starve.
Though only nine, and though she feared hunger as much as the next, Petra was ashamed to see her father beg. She was ashamed of his dhimmi status, now that she'd grown and learned enough to understand what that meant. She was ashamed of her people who submitted to this humiliation. And, when the tax gatherer looked over at her-more accurately, so she saw, looked her over-she was ashamed of herself. She remembered something Sister Margerete had told her class:
'Mohammad consummated his marriage with his favorite wife, Aisha, when she was nine years old.'
Petra hadn't quite understood what 'consummated' meant.
'Mark down the boy for gathering to the janissaries,' Rashid told the chief of his four guards. 'Take the girl now.
'And next year, you filthy swine, when I come for our taxes and demand silver, you had best give me gold or you'll see yourselves joining your daughter on the auction block.'
One of Rashid's guards went to Petra. He took handcuffs and a chain from a pouch that hung at his side. The cuffs he ratcheted shut around her wrists, tightly enough to make her wince. The chain he attached to the cuffs.
Hans lunged. 'Get your hands off my sister!'
The guard with Petra ignored the boy; that's what the other guard was for. That other guard caught Hans halfway through his lunge, wrapping one arm around the boy's waist. He then put Hans' feet back on the floor, stood and slapped him across the face several times, hard enough to stun and draw blood. The guard then knocked the boy down as his mother wailed and his stoop-shouldered father hung his head in helpless shame.
Petra, who had begun to cry when the cuffs were put on her, screamed when she saw her brother hurt. A slap from Rashid-hard enough to hurt without damaging the merchandise-quieted her.
She was sobbing as they led her away for her first ride in an automobile.
A crowd gathered outside the Minden's hovel, curious but too frightened to help. After all, what help could they give in a country no longer their own?
Interlude
Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,
9 April, 2003
'No blood for oil! No blood for oil!'
