Checking the schedule over in the office the next day, I couldn't help but groan a little.
"What's the matter there Fusie? Not enough work for you?" Beckham said.
"No. Void exercises." I said, setting the ledger down. "All afternoon, 1230 to 1800."
"Oh, lovely. Haven't had a jaunt outside in a while." Beckham said, and Murray perked up too. "What's the fuss?"
"Easy for you lot, just put on a helmet and seal up." I complained. The high collar of an officer's uniform would snugly affix to the bottom of the little oblong globe helmets and the uniform would lock and stiffen to keep positive internal pressure, and they'd be right as rain. "Not nearly so fun for us."
"I didn't think machines needed to breathe, do you?" Ensign Kelly said, twirling something in his finger. I was pretty sure it was a safety tab from one of the disposable missiles that 4th Company had been training on yesterday, left discarded in the grass. "Whatsit matter?"
I was about to answer when I saw Ensign Sumner perked up, looking eagerly at me with a smile on her face. Her I know that! face.
"Lydia, go ahead." I said, and she looked like she was going to burst with pride.
"Machines don't breathe, but they still need air. They use a system of liquid coolant inside their bodies to whisk heat from their processors and other working parts, then run that to a heat sink and silent fans at their back and collar, usually." she said, clearly reciting something she'd read. "But in vacuum, there is no air to use for cooling, so instead these systems are tied into backpack radiator units."
"Very good," I said approvingly, "and therein lies the problem. The Leynthall Model 2130 pack issued to our Theos and Doras was, we think, designed by a human who'd never have to wear it. It looks nice, but the panels jutt out too far for close formation, they do not cool very well because of thermal overlap, and they have this stiff steel frame that's dreadfully uncomfortable."
"Really? I've never heard a complaint, and I did six months of void ops." Captain Murray said, and I laughed.
"They wouldn't complain to you, ma'am. Um, sorry." I was still breaking the habit. "It's mostly just a bit of a pain, and nobody's bothered to design anything better yet. When I was a corporal we did a joint operation with the frogs, and we ended up nicking their radpacks whenever we had to go outside."
"I'm not exactly seeing how armoured bulletproof machines get uncomfortable with some metal pieces and suchlike." Beckham scoffed, raising his teacup to his lips. "Didn't really associate it, you know?"
"Any machine that's been in for a couple years is going to have three scuff marks on their backs, shoulder blades and mid-spine. That's where the pack digs through their coats and into them." I said grimly. I couldn't even imagine what mine looked like, if they were at all visible through the other damage.
"... well that's not right." he said, honestly looking a little disgusted suddenly. "Good lord, I hadn't a clue. Captain?"
"That's awful, yes. I really wish somebody had brought this up. I have a brother in the War Office, I'll write him. Surely something could be done." the Captain added, genuine concern on her face. "And I'm worried the Theos and Doras think they need to keep something like this quiet. That's awful."
"Now hold on, it's just a bit uncomfortable, it's not-"
"I think my dad buys solar sails from the Leynthalls?" Ensign Kelly said hesitantly, "Perhaps I can relay a message through him about the pack's problems?"
"Wait a tick, Kelly as in the shipyards?" Beckham asked, and he nodded nervously, "Stars, man, I bought my yacht from your old man not a month ago. Small galaxy, huh? Send my regards."
"... seriously?" I said, looking around the table. "Just like that? Do all humans know each other?"
"Of course not." Captain Murray said, shaking her head. "Though… is your father Philip Joesph Kelly, vacation estate in the Carina Nebula?"
"No, that's my uncle?" Ensign Kelly said, "I've been there though, few years ago. Bit boring…"
"Well, my husband goes golfing with your uncle…"
---
Antares City looked quite a bit like a large snowglobe, with docks radiating out around the rim. The void training fields were, appropriately, simply the underside, a section about two miles square which had no particularly sensitive parts or working components. In the far distance, you could sometimes see space workers clamouring over the station-keeping thrusters, radiator arrays, and other esoteric machines which jutted like great towers from the surface, but most of it was simply flat, empty steel plating.
The field was divided into a variety of sections for different purposes. Some were flat, others had rises and dips built in. One section was even covered over in wooden planks in imitation of a ship's hull, as while the Royal Marines were most likely to do any space boarding action, transported Army units were expected to lend assistance. The wood surfaces, a relic of the Second Age of Piracy, prevented magnetic locks and boots from adhering to the hull.
But today, training would be happening in the Sandbox, a large, dusty field simulating the conditions of a dead planet or moon, complete with the ability to rapidly sculpt artificial, hills, craters, and rocks. Combined with different paragravity settings, the reflective mirror to change lighting conditions, and the holographic emitters, just about any kind of low-atmosphere environment could be simulated.
So there I stood, fidgeting uncomfortably and silently in my radpack while trying not to fidget with the wire that connected my wireless to my throat speaker. The entire regiment, everyone who wasn't deployed, was out for exercises today, with 9th Company being loosely assigned to guard the guns while everyone else engaged in more complex exercises. This was the first excursion outside for more than half our machines, after all.
We had just reset for a new exercise, attempting to manage an attacking line across the field under 33% gravity. Fighting on surfaces like this was hard, just moving alone was a challenge. The ground was deceptively slippery and it was easy to stumble or fall if you didn't move carefully, and one soon got a feeling for planning your next half-dozen steps to maintain the loping gait you needed. Keeping this up in formation was a nightmare, and so drills were constant.
As I watched another of my new Doras eat dirt while returning to formation, her leg slipping out on the fine powdery surface and sending her tumbling sideways to the ground, Lieutenant Kennedy got my attention with a wave of her hand.
'How's your back?' she signed, a look of concern on her face behind the glass of her helmet.
'Fine' I signed back, a little annoyed. Word had gotten around through the officers about the M2130 packs, and I was honestly getting a little annoyed at their concern. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but I'd live.
"Alright everyone, if we're in position, we're going to be making this one a low-light attack." the voice of Major Gaynesford crackled through the wireless, and the mirror mounted above the field began to shift, diffusing the light of Antares into a flat twilight. My unit, not thirty meters away, became little more than a set of shadowy shapes against the ground, the only thing standing out being the eyes of anyone glancing back and the teal glows of the ensign's field generators, sparking on interaction with the dust at their feet.
Movement was difficult, but communication was a nightmare. With no air to propagate sound, you were down to sign language, signal lights, laser pointers, and the wireless. It was even worse when I was first activated, as the wireless systems only began to be introduced about fifteen years ago.
"A-section, I want you down at the rim of the crater to delay any incoming threat to the guns. Right at the lip." Captain Murray said, her voice barely audible through the wireless. "B-section, the right flank if you please. Be ready to screen, but do try to give the guns a good field of fire."
Signing luck to Lieutenant Kennedy, I strode back to my formation, drawing my sword. I glanced to the ring at the top of my sword's grip and toggled through the options with my thumb until I found the one I wanted, then I held the sword aloft and triggered the small button on the underside of the guard. Alternating pulses of yellow and white light flowed up the blade, and a moment later both ensigns copied the signal, and then the NCOs pulling ahead of the unit. I'd had to ask Ensign Sumner for help programming the signals in my blade, unfortunately.
Everyone began to move, a clumsy, awkward stagger, and I could see Sergeant Theda trying desperately to get the soldiers to close ranks as their gaits brought them apart. Behind us, the guns began firing, suddenly casting the whole scene in bright flashes that threw our shadows ahead of us. I let them move until we'd made about seventy paces from the battery before signalling a stop and pivot, leaving us diagonal to the line and in a line two deep. I walked to the outer edge so Kelly and Sumner could still see me while facing forward, staring down into the murky darkness of the Sandbox.
To our left, the 'attack' was proceeding, troops formed into tight bunches trying to work their way forward under the reduced gravity. As they began to close, every other section would slow and fire a few quick bursts of laser fire up the hill toward the vague holographic foe while the others pressed forward, alternating to try and disrupt the enemy fire while still making good time forward. Lieutenant Kennedy's guns were sweeping the enemy line, the flying guns burning sharp lines through the enemy while the gravitic howitzers threw out bombs that exploded into submunitions high above.
A Dora near me at the section suddenly perked up, pointing out to the field, and I noticed her fellows doing the same, pointing out toward the edge of the ridge on our far side. Following her finger, I saw it, dust blooming up over the edge, something moving along it and sending up a cloud of dust which hung unnaturally in the reduced gravity.
I squeezed the switch at my throat to trip my microphone while toggling the pointer function on my pistol.
"Look alive, I've got dust over the left hand ridge, about nine hundred yards." I warned, pointing my pistol up and flashing twice towards the ridge. "See it?"
"Got it, Fusie. Flanking calvary you think?"
"They are moving awful fast." I confirmed, following the propagation of the smoke cloud. Given the way it was rolling down the edge, I imagined it was the (holographic) enemy aligning themselves along the edge of the ridge for a movement on our guns. Not many of them, but at least a company in size, exactly the sort of force you'd throw out to threaten a battery.
Properly, we ought to have skirmishers there to confirm, but such was exercises with a half a regiment.
"Lieutenant Beckham, pull back to the reverse slope of the crater." Captain Murray said, and I glanced back to see her and her section moving from the edge of the crater toward my position. While the forward lip was better for disrupting skirmishers and harassing formations, the reverse would force calvary to go around. "B-section, they'll come through you if anywhere, I'm coming to you."
"Acknowledged."
If I had time, I should like to get my revolver cannons to the ridge with A-section, but the attack could come at any moment, and the worst place for them was between us alone. Instead, I signaled for a chevron formation, essentially one-quarter of an infantry square arrayed toward the enemy. You couldn't form a proper square with just a section, but you could put your tripod guns in the center of the formation and hard to get at without going directly through the densest stack of steel-armoured machines or taking a long flank that exposed you to the fire of one of the sides and the guns.
I shifted back with the unit and repositioned myself near the center just as the enemy, such as they were, came over the top of the ridge. The vague shapes were insectoid, clearly inspired by some of the more alien war machines we'd encountered at the rimward front, and they skittered low and fast toward us. This wasn't like the much more precise holographic forms of the sparring ring, these were a sort of indistinct mass, a suggestion of a formation of perhaps a hundred foes, its details amorphous and fleeting.
I raised my sword in anticipation to call for fire as they closed, holding for the most effective time. If you fired too early, the beams would dissipate with distance, and you'd be caught refilling coolant or switching rods as they reached your line. Four hundred yards would be good, three hundred best.
I could see Sergeant Theda glancing back at me, glaring. She wanted to fire early, I could tell, she was from a military which used magnetic rifles whose effectiveness did not drop off with distance (but whose rate of fire was fixed and much slower). All her instincts were telling her to order the volley.
I signed no as emphatically as I could, taking a step toward her. Her head locked forward, her arm remained raised.
At about three hundred and fifty yards, I signalled to fire, my sword flashing red, and Theda's hand chopped forward. There was a blinding series of strobes down the line, shots at simulated high power, and a huge cloud of coolant billowed out, pulled spherical by the vacuum. The revolver cannons began pulsing, a shot every half-second over the heads of the front rank, and as they overheated the weapon was cranked around, discarding a red-hot heat sink into the dirt and continuing to fire as the crews slotted in another.
A moment later, concurrent with our second volley, A-section lit up into their flank, and the shape of their formation shrank and grew ragged as it closed, simulating dwindling numbers. They were getting closer now, a hundred and fifty yards as the coolant started to grow thinner and the muskets started dumping heat directly into the rods. Pulses of light flashed up and down their line from short ranged weapons, and a few of the machines in front of us had their training packs buzz indicating they'd been hit, so they lay down and the unit tried to close up around them.
If we were going to activate bayonets, it ought to be soon.
Glancing over the heads of my Theos and Doras, it didn't look necessary. The formation was slowing, and less were dropping with each volley as it became less dense (the individual shapes were not targets, the formation was simply a target line as before, casualties calculated by odds and deviation from the center). As they grew to a halt, the front ranks panicking or locking up or whatever, I toggled my sword over and ordered walking fire.
The formation began shifting forward, edges first until it was a solid line. They couldn't exactly walk and fire in the low gravity, but they could shoot, bound two steps while the capacitors recharged, and fire again. Guns were opened and rods replaced, littering their wake with red-hot heat sinks as they kept up the pressure. With the enemy closing on what was supposed to be their charge and a solid base of inaccessible fire behind them, the holographic formation began to roll away from the section.
I turned to see Captain Murray had, at some point, come to stand beside me, an enormous grin on her face as she watched the line move. She signed 'good work', and in that moment, I felt invincible.
