Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (23 page)

FERRY POINT PARK, BRONX

“THIS IS A BIT higher tech than I was issued in the Corps,” Lyssa said as she clenched and unclenched her fist in the enhancing armor.

Eric snorted. “The Corps does more with less than anyone else on the planet, so they always get less to do more with.”

She laughed outright at that.

“That said, this is higher tech than almost anything on the planet, so it’s not exactly a shocker. Enhancing armor is expensive but, more importantly, it’s generally not terribly useful. Special Operations have been using unsealed versions for over a decade, mostly for fast hit-and-run operations deep inside Block lines.”

He helped her stand up, letting her walk a couple of steps to get used to the feel of the armor, and remembered another woman taking her first steps in the bulky gear.

“Flex your legs,” he said.

Lyssa picked one leg up off the ground, clearly straining a little. “That’s some stiff.”

“Kinetic absorption fibers,” he told her. “Fancy name for shock absorbers built into the legs. Use your body weight to counter.”

She did, settling down onto the supporting structure of the suit’s legs. It was firm, but didn’t really slow her down.

“Ok, now jump.”

Lyssa looked at him, but nodded curtly and did as she was told.

“Holy!” she blurted out as she reached the apex of the jump at about thirty feet and began to windmill her arms in an attempt to hold herself steady.

“Stop that! Suit gyros will keep you upright,” Weston called as she started to come back down. “Stick the landing! Flex!”

She did, legs taking the force as she hit the ground, lightly touching down in a three-point landing as she reached out with her right hand to control the motion.

“Trust your armor. It will keep you upright and informed,” he said as she rose back up. “Energy is stored with every movement. If you don’t use it in a jump, it’s converted to stored potential energy and bled off into the suit’s battery.”

He handed her a rifle. “Here. Link this to your suit.”

She closed her hand around the big grip of the battle rifle and it automatically lit up as her armor queried it and the two objects linked. She noted that the weapon was empty and automatically grabbed one of the magazines from the nearby box, slapping it home. The red lights turned green instantly, taking away one of Lyssa’s many
unhappies
.

“Will this take down one of those things?” she asked, turning her focus back to Weston.

Eric nodded. “Yeah. They’re armored, but these were designed to take out tanks toward the end of the war.”

“Good.” She walked over to another crate and settled down to strip and clear her weapon.

She’d used one just like it while she was in the service, and was well aware that while they came out of the crate at about eighty percent ready to use, that was a far cry from one hundred percent. She had a little work to do.

Eric watched her from a distance, not saying anything. He just grinned under his helmet and went back to his preparations. Lyssa had her contacts to bring in, but Eric had made a few over the years himself and New York housed more than one old friend.

In the distance behind him, an explosion tore through the city.

CLEARVIEW, QUEENS

THE CHIME WAS out of place in the darkened home, but it was insistent and refused to be silenced until a burly man with graying hair thumped up the stairs from the basement and grabbed the link slate from where he’d left it on the local counter. He grunted, glaring at the message in more than a little disbelief before shaking his head finally.

“Melanie, I’m going out.”

“You’re
what?
” his wife demanded from the basement. “Ronald Blake, you’re the one who insisted that we stay in and get in the basement! If you think I’m staying down here . . .”

“Woman, you stay the hell where you are. I’m going out!” he roared back over his shoulder.

The source of the voice had already ignored him, however, and was standing at the top of the stairs. “Don’t you talk to me like that. I’m not one of your floozies from your service days.”

“Don’t I know it,” he moaned as he grabbed an old flak jacket and threw it on, sliding a pistol into his belt. “They wouldn’t be questioning me right now.”

“That’s because none of them had anything other than air between their ears, and you know it. Now what the hell are you doing this for?”

“An old friend is calling out the clan,” he said as he walked to the door.

At the door to the house he paused, glancing back. “Run off more water while the pressure is still good, and stay in the basement and away from windows. That blast earlier may not be the last, and the next one might be close enough to blow the glass in.”

“We have shatterproof composite windows, Ron. You picked them out, remember?”

“Yeah, well, stay away from the windows anyway.” He grunted, pausing to think on it. Then he pulled the gun from his belt and handed it over to her. “Take this.”

“Aren’t you going to need it?”

“You saw those things on the news before they took out the cameraman,” he grunted. “That popgun won’t do a damn thing.”

“So what do I need it for?”

“For humans,” Ronald Blake said before he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Across town, in another borough, a similar conversation was happening, though in reverse.