I could lift it—barely. I found the bulk of it staggering. With that much weight on my back, I had to lean forward in an awkward crouch. I couldn’t stand erect. It pained my knees too, in particular. The Nanos worked to repair a muscle rip or a splitting joint with every step. I felt the nanites swarming overtime on my joints, making them tingle and itch, as if I were being constantly bitten by pissed-off ants. It got worse when I took off in a shambling run. I ran in a thundering, off-balanced fashion carrying the load a hundred yards or so down the beach and then brought it back to the team, sweating. My time was just over fifteen seconds, three times as long as I had run the same distance unloaded.
“Too much,” I told them.
Barely nodding, but impressed despite their cool exteriors, they shoveled out half the load. I smiled. I realized then they hadn’t expected me to be able to move. They had overloaded me right off, just to put me in my place. I’d still managed to run with the gear, however. With about eight hundred pounds of dripping sand on my back, I’d run up and down a beach in the tropical heat.
While they shoveled, I looked back at my tracks. They were six inches deep in places. The prints had darkened and filled with water. Each print was a small, reflective pool. They looked like hoof prints. Prints from a horse that needed to go on a diet.
I tried about a hundred and fifty kilos next. That was about three hundred and fifty pounds. The difference was dramatic. My joints creaked a bit, but they didn’t feel like they were snapping. The biggest improvement was in the area of weight-distribution. I didn’t feel as grossly off-balance. I had to lean forward to run, way forward, but it was doable. I could still outrun an Olympic sprinter, and I could do it without tearing myself apart. I trotted back to them.
“That’s good. I can handle that much. I bet a bigger, younger man with better muscle tone could do more. But this is about triple the weight of the original gear. That should be enough firepower for a soldier to take out a Macro belly-turret single-handedly.”
I was already forming dinner plans, and they involved Sandra. But the spooks weren’t finished with me yet. They had only just begun with their tests. They didn’t take my word for my physical status, either. They had doctors checking my pulse, blood-pressure, etc. after every lap. I had an EKG monitor strapped to my chest. They wanted to put a temperature probe up my tail-pipe, but I drew the line there, telling them I wasn’t a pack animal. They taped it into my armpit instead with sour expressions.
They dressed up and redistributed my load. They added belts, circling my waist with diving weights. They gave me a smaller front pack to improve my balance. They kept hosing down the big load of sand, too, making sure it stayed close to the desired weight. I groaned and ran the beach lap for them about twenty more times.
After the ordeal, they tested my eyesight, blood, reflexes and even swabbed my throat. I had no idea what they thought they would get out of all of that, but I didn’t argue as long as they didn’t irritate me too much. This team had to be sold. I needed them to convince the higher-ups the project was worth every resource they had. There couldn’t be any reluctance when it came to parting with supplies of titanium, plutonium and other critical components. If I didn’t succeed, they were going to have to nuke the Macros—and one of our continents with them—back into primordial ooze. We would only have six continents left after that. And we weren’t even sure the nukes would stop the enemy entirely.
After a break that consisted of a lobster dinner in the officers’ mess with Sandra, and two beers each to keep us company, I headed out to the secret base I’d built in the jungle. My Nano factories hummed there night and day. Our ships hung all around it, like big, black shadows. Half were on guard duty, while half were ferrying whatever materials the factories needed to them. I had about ten percent of the factories working on making more factories now. That way, our production was always increasing.
The factories had already produced enough nanite injections for thousands of troops. I set one quarter of them working on constructing heavier laser rifles. The rest I had making new reactors. The new units were over three hundred pounds each, about three times the weight of the reactors I’d had men carry into battle back in Brazil. Only men who had undergone the nanite injections could carry these new units. Ordering the factories to produce the weapons systems was a moment of commitment that felt drastic, but I felt I had to do it. What was the point of getting our best troops chewed up a second time around? This time, I’d go down with a force that might have a chance. And I’d take more of them along, too.
The new recruits arrived the next morning. In the first wave there were about three hundred of them. Many more were coming tomorrow, according to the reports. Thousands more.
I had my first batch of recruits fall out and form up ten ranks deep on the parade grounds in the center of my camp. They were all male, and they were a grim-faced lot. They averaged twenty-eight years old, and they were combat veterans, every last one of them. I’d demanded that much. I didn’t want green troops. I didn’t have the ability to train them in infantry tactics, I barely knew the drill myself. But I could teach them how to handle their new bodies once they’d undergone the injections. I could teach them how to fight a Macro, to some degree. I could teach them about the laser units and backpack reactors, because I had designed them.
Special forces volunteers from every major military were represented. There were Russian Spetsnaz, Israeli Shayetet, Swedish Jagares, and even Chinese SLCU. Nearly half were U.S. troops, however. Green Berets, Marine Recon, Airborne, and a few from Delta. There were some from organizations I’d never heard of. I felt honored and a bit daunted to be in the company of such men, such professionals—especially since I was expected to lead them. Most had never fought a Macro, however. And none had felt the joys of the nanite injections.
I did spot one friendly face in the crowd of serious-eyed warriors. Sergeant Lionel Wilson, the man I’d brought back with me from my first pitched battle with the Macros. I clapped him on the back and he staggered a step. I brought him out of line to stand before the others.
“I know this man can fight the machines. I’ve personally fought with him, shoulder-to-shoulder against them. He knows how an improved man like myself operates. I’m making him my First Sergeant. The rest of you will have to earn your stripes all over again. I don’t care if you were a colonel yesterday. Here, you start fresh.”
They looked startled, but no one protested. I nodded and stood as stiffly as I could.
“After the injections, you will find yourself to be a different kind of man. You might not find it easy to return home. I urge anyone with second thoughts to bail out of here now, before you take the next step and change your body forever.”
They looked at me. No one spoke up. I wondered if they might come to regret their decision when the nanites began toying with their cell structure.
I’d produced new uniforms for these troops. They all had PFC stripes on them. I’d decided to go with Marine ranks and to start everyone one step from the bottom. The uniforms were different than standard fatigues. They were heavier. They were cumbersome, in fact. They had a lead lining and could be buttoned up for hazardous environments. We were likely to be wearing them in radioactive zones, and I wanted my men to be accustomed to that kind of sweltering, stiff gear.
A lot of the men were in civies. I handed out the new uniforms and gave them leave to get dressed. They all had to look the same, just to get them thinking like a team. Everyone spoke reasonable English, another requirement for joining. They could all talk to one another, they all wore the same thing and they were all veterans. I hoped these shared traits would help pull them together quickly into an effective fighting force. The joy of the injections would be another experience that would make us all brothers, I figured.