were predicting temperatures near body heat, and humidity almost as high. On a day like that, the air-conditioned cafeteria didn’t sound so bad. Besides, the trike was at home for Toni to use, if she wanted.
And the food was usually pretty good.
He saw John Howard just ahead, also heading toward the cafeteria.
“John,” Michaels called.
“Commander.” Howard slowed for him to catch up.
“You see the new EHPA/HEL from DARPA?”
Howard shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have.”
Michaels passed his flatscreen over. “Check it out.”
EHPA stood for Exoskeletons for Human Performance Augmentation; HEL the Human Engineering Laboratory, at UC Berkeley; and DARPA was for the Defense Advanced Reasearch Projects Agency, which was funding the beast. The project had been around for ten or twelve years, and was finally to the stage where they had a full- strength product they thought worth field-testing.
Howard looked at the screen. It showed a soldier in chocolate-chip camo outfitted in the experimental exoskeleton. He was holding a barbell loaded with plates over his head in a military press.
Michaels hadn’t had time to do more than scan the article, but already knew quite a bit about the project. The basic unit was a blend of tightly wound carbon fiber, spider silk, and lightweight metals, securely strapped to the soldier’s limbs. The suit had articulated aircraft-aluminum and titanium joints at the shoulders, elbows, wrists, hands, waist, hips, knees, and ankles. It came with special boots and metal half “gloves,” too.
A series of hydraulic pistons attached to the geared joints were dual-powered. The bulk of the work was done by Nanomuscle’s revolutionary memory-metal actuators, like those found in cars and boats. These memory- metal “muscles” were backed by several standard electric motors clamped to the frame. Everything was run by a small backpack tank of hydrogen and a fuel cell, and operation was coordinated by an onboard computer chip with a built-in failsafe.
With sensors that picked up normal muscle movements, developed originally by medical technicians for artificial limbs for amputees, the exoskeleton would greatly augment a man’s abilities. A trooper who could bench press two hundred pounds without the suit could push five hundred with it. Any movement that the frame could handle was likewise augmented. One moment, a man could be standing at ease; the next, he could squat and lift a car’s rear end clear off the road, with the suit doing most of the work. They weren’t good for running faster, but using one you could climb longer, work harder, and even lock it so you could stand unmoving for hours. It would even let you sleep standing up.
The exoskeleton could make a small woman stronger than any man. A man would be almost as strong as a gorilla.
“We can get one for testing, if you want to try it out,” Michaels said. “The National Guard has six available, and I have the clout to snag us one.”
The general grinned, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “That would be interesting. Not to mention it would be nice to have something to surprise Lieutenant Fernandez with for a change.” He passed the flatscreen back to Michaels.
“I’ll put in a requisition,” Alex said.
“Thank you, Commander.”
Michaels nodded. “Toni wanted me to tell you she’s still working on your gun grips,” he said, changing the subject.
Toni, who did scrimshaw, had decided to do a set of faux-ivory stocks for Howard’s sidearm, the Net Force logo on one side, and, unbeknownst to him, a portrait of his wife on the other panel.
“She doesn’t need to do that,” Howard said.
“She wants to. She’ll have a little time to play with them, since she’s going to be home for a few days.”
“Trouble?”
They reached the cafeteria, collected trays and flatware, and stood in the food line.
“Not for us,” Michaels said. “Guru’s great-grandson is sick, Phoenix or somewhere, and she’s gone to visit him.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Pneumonia, and she says the doctors aren’t too worried. Anyway, we’re without a sitter until she gets back.”
“You looking for one? A baby-sitter?”
Michaels arrived in front of the fried chicken. He took two pieces, then added a third. “You have somebody in mind?”
“Well, my son Tyrone could use some work. He missed out on a regular job because he had a class he wanted to do this summer. He’s on the fast track to graduate early. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind baby-sitting Alex. He’s been doing that kind of thing for the last year or so, mostly neighbors, and little Hoo — Lieutenant Fernandez’s son.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Only the Good Lord knows why, but he likes kids. If Toni wanted to work half-days or something, I imagine he’d be up for it. He has some new computer gear he wants to buy, and I told him I’d go half but that he had to earn the rest.”
Howard passed on the fried chicken, selecting a hamburger steak for himself.
“Well, that would be helpful. Let me ask Toni.”
30
Junior sat at the table with the three bikers, Buck, Dawg, and Spawn. Seemed like half the businesses in Georgia had the word “peach” in their names.
Even armed as he was with two guns, Junior wouldn’t have wanted to be in here alone. At the very best, he’d only get twelve shots off before the remaining gang members stomped him. The basic biker code that the Hell’s Angels had come up with a long time ago was simple: One on all, all on one. Most other clubs took that one for their own. If you looked funny at one rider, you were looking funny at the whole club.
He might shoot six, eight, ten of them, but then they’d get him. And that was assuming none of them pulled their own pieces when the first round cooked off, which would be a stupid assumption. He’d bet dollars to pennies that every one of the people in that bar — men and women both — was carrying something lethal.
As long as he had an honor guard, though, he was probably okay.
The Peach Pit was like a dozen other biker bars Junior had been in: loud music, a lot of smoke — a mix of tobacco and marijuana — and worn-out dancers and waitresses. There was the usual mix among the riders, too: Little weasely looking ones, and others the size of small countries; young, old, fat, buffed, long hair, skinheads, bald; all wearing their colors. They sat at tables or the bar, played pool or the old-style pinball machines, and drank beer by the bottle or pitcher. The big image on their jackets, their colors, was a skeleton wearing a Confederate uniform with a cap, one hand up, giving the world a bony finger. “Gray Ghostriders” was written over that, and “MC” underneath the rebel skeleton.
The women here were hard-looking, sporting a lot of blond and red dyed hair, with purple and blue eye shadow. Most of them wore tank tops and jeans, no bras, and there were enough tattoos on the bikers and old ladies visible to make a mural that would practically cover the whole outside wall. There was a row of bikes parked out front that together probably cost as much as a fleet of Cadillacs. You might not have the rent, your old lady could be in jail and you couldn’t make bail, but you didn’t cheap out when it came to your scoot. A man had his priorities, and in the biker’s world, it was his ride.
Darla, who might or might not be Joan’s sister, wasn’t in yet, but her shift was supposed to begin in half an hour.
Junior figured God owed him one on this whole deal, and if Darla showed up, Junior was willing to call it
