13
Damn, I wonder what she’d be like in bed?
<Sergeant Jesup is a healthy female, and despite her damaged leg and side, there is no indication that she’d have any physical limitations in copulation.>
“For—I didn’t ask you that!” Rev said aloud, drawing a puzzled reaction from the greentab sergeant. “Sorry, still getting used to my AI.”
Sergeant Jesup laughed and said, “Yeah, it’ll take some time. It gets easier, believe me. Your battle buddy has to learn how you think just as much as you need to learn how to direct your thoughts and use it.”
Direct my thoughts? Does she know what I was thinking?
His AI was supposedly wholly self-contained for the same reasons his jack was a physical connection. It would be easy enough for the jack to work through wifi or another remote connection, but the Centaurs were able to knock out wifi with ease. Controlling his peripherals had to be done with direct, shielded connections.
Still, he felt a hot blush sweep over his face.
“Let’s try again,” the sergeant said. “Take target three-oh-one.”
Sergeant Jesup wasn’t a DI but what they referred to as a greentab, an instructor. Official DIs wore a black collar tab, assigned corpsmen a red tab, and staff a gold tab. No one without a tab was supposed to interact with a recruit at all. He’d probably never consider the physical attributes of a DI, but as a greentab, it was hard for him to ignore her—
Afraid that his AI was going to interject something again, Rev shook his head, breaking that thought, then looked down the scope, searching for the target. It took him a moment to spot it.
“Key analytics,” he muttered.
He should be able to simply think the command, but until he was more experienced and his AI melded to him better, vocalizing was a surer proposition.
With the crosshairs on the target, the data ran down the length of the .62 caliber sniper rifle, through the connecting cable, and into his jack, where his battle buddy was able to process the firing solution.
“Three thousand, four hundred and twelve meters. Right fifteen clicks, up twenty-three clicks,” his battle buddy told him.
There was a lot more data being calculated than just range: barometric pressure, temperature, wind, Coriolis effect, the rotation of the planet under him, the density of the ground over where the round would pass, and several more inputs. But to be blunt, Rev didn’t have to know them. That was what his AI was supposed to do. It was up to Rev to hold steady and make the shot.
His AI’s fire solution was not just for Rev’s ears. They went back out through the jack and to the scope. His sight picture shifted left and down, and Rev brought the crosshairs back until they centered on the target.
“Three deep breaths, then gentle on the trigger,” the sergeant said.
Rev tried to tune her out and focus on the target. The Dykstra was an amazing weapon for a slug-thrower, and while the target was well within its range, three-plus klicks was still a long shot.
The trigger of the sniper rifle was a small button on the right side of the trigger assembly. With his thumb, he released the safety, then rested his forefinger just above the trigger. He took the three calming breaths, then on the last he exhaled halfway and held it.
He gave the trigger a light touch, and the big gun exploded, kicking back like a mule. Rev didn’t cry out this time, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. He wished his body would hurry up and heal under the polyamerase spider web that had been implanted under most of his skin. He brought his scope back to the target in time to see the trace of the round arch to the target, only to have the big round hit high and to the right.
“Hell, I’m never going to get this.”
“Yes, you will,” the sergeant said. “If this was easy, everyone would be getting the augments. It takes time for everything to knit together.”
That was easy for her to say. She was Zero-Three-Fourteen, a light infantry sniper. Shooting was her entire purpose of being, and she had the augments designed specifically for that.
“Why am I even doing this?” he asked in frustration. “A chemical slug? Why not a spear if we’re going back to ancient history?”
The M-102 Nellis was the main Marine sniper rifle, a normal mag ring weapon. At hypervelocity speeds and a smaller diameter, the rounds were not as affected by forces of nature. He’d been much better at firing it than the Dykstra in his hands now.
“And if the tin-asses hit you with an EMP blast? Your Nellis might as well be a club.”
“But you said the Centaurs are basically impervious to this thing,” Rev said, not wanting to give up on his bitching.
“You don’t always have to take out the Centaur itself. Take out its peripherals, and you’re diminishing its capabilities,” she said, ignoring his attitude. “So, let’s try again and give your battle buddy more data.”
Rev sighed. When he’d come out of surgery three weeks ago, he expected to suddenly be a superman, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But he’d barely been able to step up over a curb without stumbling.
His mechanicals worked fine. They just took some getting used to for him to control them. His biosynths were a little more difficult to master, but his organics? He didn’t feel anything yet. His eyesight felt normal—same with his hearing. He didn’t feel like he had better stamina or any of the other advantages he’d been promised, and his spider web itched under his skin, no matter that the doctors said that shouldn’t be happening.
Those same doctors performed his daily checkups and assured him that the organics had seated, and now all he had to do was wait as they grew into place. But he was tired of waiting.
And his AI? It was a royal pain in the ass so far. It was like having an idiot lodged in his head, one that didn’t understand common social interaction, or much of anything else, to be honest. He knew that some Marines and battle buddies never meshed, and he was beginning to wonder if he was going to fall into that category.
Tomiko, the only other MilDes Zero-Two-Three in the class, loved hers, however, going so far as to name it Pikachu, which was evidently some ancient Japanese god from back on Earth. Rev refused to give his a name. It was a tool he had to learn to use, not an imaginary friend.
“Try target Three-oh-nine,” Sergeant Jesup said.
With another sigh, Rev searched it out.
“Key analytics,” he muttered again, hoping that his battle buddy would get it right this time.