Chương 220: [Nova Wars] - Chapter 175

The sergeant held up a small gray box, big enough for a pair of boots.

"This is a basic materials printer. Spec says it can print a non-articulated, non-chemical palm-sized item once every five minutes, requiring a specialized refillable slurry every twenty full-sized prints or so. It makes no sound while printing, emits no noticeable heat, and cannot be sped up in any way." The sergeant held up a second small gray box.

"This is a Terran class one nanoforge. It can print complex, articulated items, including chemical-based materials up to and including a fully-loaded M399v4 Stallion pistol magazine fully loaded with spooky white phosphorous hollowpoint rounds. It can do this at a slow pace of one per five minutes, or it can emit copious amounts of heat and generate nanite slush and do it in one minute.

It requires only atmospheric material loading at worst, and zero point vacuum energy at best, for refueling and does not require maintenance so much as recalibration and occasional flushes." He paused.

"It makes a noticeable machine sound while operating in either mode." He held up the two devices, which looked very much alike.

"These are the same device. The difference is, the second one has been operated by Terrans in battle. Neither has been tampered with or adjusted with tools since leaving the factory, yet they possess entirely different capabilities." He stared at the classroom.

"When you understand how this impossible difference can exist, you will understand why no one with functioning pattern recognition ever attacks the Terrans... and why the Prime Miscalculation keeps occurring." - SSGT Greenwater, era unrecorded Look upon the visage of the King of Burgers and tell me... Does that look like the face of mercy? He had mercy, once For the Dairy Queen. He still bears the scars from her betrayal. Razor Wit Wendy and the Ronnie the Mack, oh how they laughed that day.

The Great and Terrible Burger King has always promised his citizens they can have it Their Way. However he doesn't deliver, he never has. You must come get it yourself. With your own hands. - Mantid Diplomatic Training Senator, have you ever stared into your own eyes as the life left them? Have you ever spent two months fighting against an enemy that you are standing in over and over and over with? I've killed myself a thousand times and you think this you and your little precious hearing scares me, Senator?

I've scraped scarier things than this off of my bayonet and onto my boot sole. - Field Colonel Amanda Arnold Breastasteel, Clownface Nebula Investigative Commission PV2 Theron Pinion stepped out of his armor, taking a moment to stretch. His shoulders popped and he flushed slightly as his eyes closed in relief. He looked at the four green mantids that were operating the controls of the armor cradle.

"Shoulders are stiff. My port grav anchor went silent. It still works, but it picked up a harmonic about an hour ago. Main gun hands for a split second when retracting at the second overlap," he said. One mantid was rapidly typing.

"Anything else?" the computer modulated voice asked from the terminal.

"Dick clamp's too tight. I keep complaining but nobody fixes it," he said, flushing deeper. He jerked and almost reflexively covered his bare groin as a laser played over his crotch.

"Outside of standard deviance. Will adjust. It is imperative that the cylinder remains unharmed. Anything else?" the terminal asked. The mantid threw jokes back and forth. Theron wasn't capable of reading Mantid tech speak holograms but he still knew the formula for the volume of a cylinder.

"Har dee har har," he said. That time the mantids made chirping sounds of amusements. The warrant officer waved on bladearm and the door to the interior opened up.

"Put on some clothes, weirdo," the terminal said.

"I run this shit swinging hog," Pinion laughed as he stepped through the door. He laughed at the hologram of a cartoon version of him running down the road with his genitals held in a wheelbarrow. Holding the wheelbarrow with one hand while shooting a pistol at the other. At the side was a mantid saying "I ain't riding that..." The door shut and the scrubber kicked on, leaving Theron feeling itchy and weird. He rubbed his skin then went over to a locker and grabbed one of the jumpsuits, pulling it on.

There was a tapping sound but they were into thirty six hours and this was his second turn in The Box, so the sound of enemy probing fire didn't even phase him. The mobile base was protected by layered battlescreens normally on a frigate and a full meter of warsteel armor. It was funny. If you asked him 20 hours ago he would have told you there was no way he could relax inside a reconfigured drop pod. Now, it was home sweet home.

0-0-0-0-0 Pan'nikk walked away from Staff Sergeant Grayeyes after uploading his suit records so they could be sent back to Brigade intelligence and forwarded to Naval Intelligence. --glad you get relax time-- the green mantid signaled.

"Why?" Pan'nikk asked. --suit needs lots of work-- the mantid said. --lots of stuff that shows up only after extend use--"I've used this suit before. Plenty of times," Pan'nikk protested. --use in battle standing around thumb in ass not count-- 2209 answered. --wear on right hip can see where stressing your hip socket slightly not noticable by brain but hip feels cartilage rub used to blow out telkan left knee--"Lot of time at the front?" Pan'nikk asked.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. --no only six years old lots of training on hateful mars did tour of wrathful mercury did tour of punished pluto all hardship-- 2209 said. --lots of time dealing armor in protective use-- There was a pause. --punished pluto kill if not careful-- 2209 said. --radiation pools lava geysers snapped chain lanky broke planet putting back together--"Oh. Not combat but hazardous duty, got it," Pan'nikk said.

He'd noticed that the greenie hadn't countermanded him and the suit seemed to move a lot better. Now that the mantid mentioned it, his right hip did have a low level ache. --black glittering sands of wrathful mercury worked out at the forges repairing-- 2209 said. --still lots do after lanky attack-- there was a pause.

--helped decommish lanky battlewagon crashed on surface fought robots--"OK, that sounds nerve wracking," Pan'nikk moved around an ammo forge vehicle and made a beeline for the rest and refit pod that was sitting comfortably, the battlescreen shimmering. The platoon was holding position while Division elements shifted position. --first sixty seconds sergeant malliker takes 25cm to the face whoop gone till reprint dumbass-- the mantid said.

"Reprint?" Pan'nikk asked. --humans not die well not really youll see-- Pan'nikk climbed into the airlock and hit the stud. It cycled and he stepped forward. There were four mantids at a control terminal as the cradle grabbed him and started manipulating the armor so it was arms outstretched.

"Injuries?" the terminal asked.

"Right hip aches, sinuses ache," Pan'nikk said.

"Any other?"

"Uh, no," Pan'nikk said.

"Any armor deficits?" Pan'nikk thought.

"Uh... right hip is... uh.. rubber? I don't know." HOUSING OPEN 2209 logged out HOUSING CLOSED A big green mantid climbed over his shoulder and down his arm, jumping for the wall. It hung there, flashing equations between its antenna. His armor beeped twice and cracked open, letting him out.

"Your armor will be in repair, refit, optimization, and reconfigure for six hours. Leadership has been notified," the terminal said.

"Oh, uh, thanks," Pan'nikk frowned. It was a lot different from the last two times he'd been in here. He went in and stepped through the sterilizer. It made his eyeballs vibrate in the sockets for a moment, then he was through. A quick paper jumpsuit and he stepped into the mess hall. He went over and got a salad with crunchy bits and a juice, then sat down. It had been a long scout run. Being pinned down hadn't helped his mood any either.

Why the hell do they even need a scout when they can just faceroll anything in their way? he wondered. We got ambushed by tanks and emplaced guns and we lost three. We've been on the ground nearly thirty-six hours and we've lost five men total. We need to pull back. The door opened and a human stepped through. Again, Pan'nikk was startled at their sheer size and presence. It was like a walking brick of warsteel going over and getting food.

The human sat down directly across from Pan'nikk and started putting burning hot chemicals on his food while smiling. 0-0-0-0-0 The door opened to the small mess hall. Only a pair of food forges and a picnic bench table bolted to the floor. There was a Telkan sitting down and Pinion nodded to the fuzzy as he went over, grabbed a quick meal of noodles and sauce, and then came over and sat back down.

The Telkan's meal had a lot of leafage and bunny food in it but Theron knew that meat heavy sauce and wheat noodles weren't everyone's cut of tea.

"Good fun, huh?" Theron said, setting his food and drink down. The magtac system held the bowl and sippy cup in place. He grabbed one of the hot sauce bottles, tilting it slightly to break the magtac, then started dripping it on his noodles.

"If you're wrapped in ten tons of power, I guess," the Telkan said.

"Strip away the heavy weapons and the suits only two metric short tons," Theron said. He snapped the cap closed with his thumb and put the bottle back.

"Mostly armor, strength enhancement, life support, phasic shielding. Stuff like that." He laughed.

"I'd love to have one of the big ten ton suits. Five meters and some inches in change tall, bristling with weapons, able to drop from orbit in an unpowered unpodded descent," his eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Man, we finish this, I'm totally volunteering." The Telkan shook his head.

"Anyway, Theron Pinion, Pee-Vee-Two, Solarian Iron Dominion military," Theron said.

"Field Sergeant (P) Pan'nikk, Telkan Marine Corps, Confederacy of Aligned Systems Armed Services," the Telkan said.

"How come you were running without a greenie?" Theron asked.

"Supposedly they're endangered or something," Pan'nikk asked.

"I've heard there's not many left." The human shrugged.

"I think there's something like 1. 5 billion on Terra alone," he took a bite of food, chewed, and swallowed before continuing.

"I can't imagine running without a greenie support."

"Do they really make that much difference?" Pan'nikk asked.

"Motherbox, warboi, greenie, and pound for pound you're more deadlier than a starship, a Mantid Speaker, or even a PAWM," Theron said. The door to the sleeping area opened and another human came in. Again, Pan'nikk was struck by the size. It took a second for the ID to come back as Sergeant Kellok. This one got a bowl of meat strips with sauce and some vegetables.

"Kalki's balls, I love stir fry," the human said, sitting down.

"Sergeant," Pinion said.

"Private," Kellok said, sprinkling hot sauce on his meal.

"Sergeant," Pan'nikk said.

"Sergeant," Kellok said, snapping the hot sauce closed and putting it back. He looked at both of the others.

"Can't talk, eating!" he said in a weird strained voice. And then pretty much attacked his meal. Pinion shoved his empty bowl back and tapped the table, dissolving it. Pan'nikk went back to eating as Theron got up from the table.

"Gonna grab some shut-eye outside the armor," he said.

"Mm-hmm," the Sergeant said. Pan'nikk didn't say anything, just watched him head for the bunks. Out of six, three were unoccupied. It was silent for a moment before the Sergeant pushed the bowl back and tapped the table, dissolving it. Pan'nikk watched the human light a Treana'ad smoke stick.

"How's your first combat drop treating you, Sergeant?" the human asked.

"Got plenty to bitch about," Pan'nikk said.

"I'll bet. Hell of thing to snatch you from Confed and drop you with us," he said. He reached up and rubbed his face.

"Ugh, my skull still itches. Stupid bioprinter."

"Huh?" Pan'nikk asked, startled by the sudden tangent.

"Took a 25cm MASER's 5. 5 gigajoules per second tightbeam to the face, blew my fucking head clean off. Had to recycle," he shivered, goosebumps raising on his arms.

"The Detainee is personally handling rebirths. She spent a couple of centuries watching me get hit over and over and laughing at it. She said it was the funniest shit she'd ever seen." He took a drink off his sippy pouch.

"Hurt every fucking time. About halfway through I started to remember that the hit was coming. Last few years I knew she was laughing at me," the Sergeant said.

"I'd start screaming because she was leaning forward in anticipation and I knew what was coming." Pan'nikk shuddered.

"That sounds terrible." The Sergeant nodded.

"It is."

"But you come back to life," Pan'nikk said.

"Trust me, brother, about two centuries in and you're almost ready to throw in the towel," the Sergeant said.

"Know what the worse part is?" Pan'nikk shook his head. The whole thing sounded terrible.

"After getting my head blown off I'd appear on this beach. It's Corona de Nada in the Hamburger Kingdom. It would be an overcast day. I could hear people training around me. I'd look up and see the Detainee standing next to the bell," the Sergeant shuddered.

"Nightmare fuel." Pan'nikk thought for a moment.

"I don't get it."

"I never attended power armor special ops school, but Corona de Nada is where they train. You go up and ring the bell and you drop out. You go home," the Sergeant shuddered again.

"She was basically telling me that if I rang the bell, it would all stop. I would go into the afterlife."

"Why didn't you?" Pan'nikk asked. He was fascinated despite himself.

"Because, Sergeant, I have men to lead. I have responsibilities," he looked at the table and tapped his finger against it, bringing up the context menu each time.

"I signed up for the war. That doesn't mean I quit just because I got killed." He stood up.

"Time to suit up." Pan'nikk watched the big human leave. We fought a civil war that killed over a billion people over whether or not the religion of the Digital Omnimessiah was real or not. The Truthers won, he thought. He looked at the table, still able to see the human's fingerprint on the table. And he just spent several centuries, his time, being tempted by the Devil herself. He tapped up a drink refill and took a sip of it, still staring at the table. If we're wrong about that, what else am I wrong about?