CALIPHATE(16)

The range (rather, the range which bore the name) had seen many uses over the years and had once been in a different place. One major use, in the other place, had been as a close assault course. In the original version of this, machine guns had fired at about waist level over the heads of troops crawling forward. Later on, this was deemed too unsafe and the guns were fixed to fire well over the heads of even the tallest man. That this had totally destroyed the already limited moral training value of the range was deemed acceptable by those more concerned with safety statistics than with victory on the battlefield.

They didn't do that anymore, for Suited Heavy Infantry, at least. Now rifles and machine guns, the same kinds as favored by the Moslem enemy across the globe, were aimed by remote control and fired to hit. Since with full-up armor the suits were more or less invulnerable to those rifles and machine guns, it was still a very safe exercise. On the other hand, it was a great way to build confidence in the troops in the armor's ability to withstand direct hits.

While Hodge fanned the trench with lead-tipped flame, Hamilton passed her by, bouncing up and over it and taking a kneeling firing position—trees and sandbags being not as good a protection as four millimeters of liquid metal armor—to begin peppering a bunker farther downrange.

As he did so, Hodge knelt beside him and changed out the helical magazine on her left-wrist-borne CCW, or "close combat weapon." Colloquially, among the troops, the things were known as "Slags," as in "Slag 'em,"—turn them into something wet and runny.

Once that was done she took her own weapon, a fifty millimeter semi-automatic grenade launcher, and fired a salvo of four rounds of training practice—it had the same ballistics as a high explosive service round but only as much explosive as one might find in a blasting cap—at the bunker, one of which went directly through the aperture. The bunker decided it was dead and cut off control to the remote operator.

Hamilton directed his comm system, "Closed circuit, me to Hodge," and said, after the beep that indicated the changeover, "Good job, you bloodthirsty bitch. Glad you're on my side."

They both heard, through the platoon net, "Action right. Enemy platoon counterattacking. Kill 'em."

No sooner had they heard this than a flurry of bullets swept over both of them. The suits shrugged those bullets off, but they still had enough energy to rock the two troopers back.

Hodge began slow fire—one round per two seconds—at the advancing robotic targets. As she did, she said, "Closed circuit; me to Hamilton" and then, "Did I ever mention this shit makes me horny?"





Kitznen, Provence of Affrankon, 13 Duh'l-Qa'dah,

1530 AH (10 November, 2106)


"Now he," Besma said, "is a beautiful man."

"Do you suppose he really looked like that?" Petra asked, "Or do you think maybe my great-grandmother sort of . . . what's the word?"

"Idealized?"

"Yes, that one. Do you think she idealized him or did he really look like that?"

"Either way, he's a dream. And there's something about that."

"That" was a male appendage, plainly visible in the drawing.

To that Petra agreed. Mohammad had had a point. Even at nine, a girl is still in good part already a woman.

The drawing the girls were looking at in the journal was labeled "Mahmoud" in the artist's superb handwriting.

"He's one of my people, I think," Besma said.

"Not one of mine, for sure," Petra agreed. "What do you think he was to my great-grandmother?"

"I don't know. Let's try to read some more. Maybe we can find out."





Private Rodger W. Young Range, Fort Benning, Georgia,

12 November, 2106


"No," Hamilton insisted, "we are not going to dump our groin armor so we can fuck."

"Scaredycat," Hodge taunted.

"Nothing of the kind," he answered. "It's just that the thought's preposterous. It'd be like two robots going at it."

Unable to help herself Hodge started to giggle. "It really would look ridiculous. But then, who's going to see?"

"Everybody. We don't have thermal imagers for nothing and the heat waves rising from your hot little ass would be sure to be noticed."

"You think my ass is hot?"

"I think all of you is hot, Laurie."

Some things, she thought, are better than sex. Being thought "hot" is sometimes one of them. "Okay. I'll leave you alone for now. But when we get back to Olson Hall you better show me that you really think all of me is hot."

"Deal," Hamilton agreed.

Though they were lying on their backs in the dirt next to each other, she didn't bother to snuggle in. Hamilton was right; there was something obscene about two robots cuddling.