Грань будущего

           Apiledriverisaclose-combatweaponthatusesanexplosivechargetofiretungstencarbidespikes-onlygoodagainstenemieswithinarm’sreach. Thepowdercartridgesitfiresareeachasbigasaman’sfist. Ataninety-degreeangleofimpact,theonlythingthatcanstanduptoitisthefrontarmorplatingonatank. Whentheyfirsttoldmeitsmagazineonlyheldtwentyrounds,Ididn’tthinkanyonecouldlivelongenoughtouseeventhatmany. Iwaswrong. 

           Minehadfourroundsleft. 

           Ihadfiredsixteentimes,andmissedfifteen-maybesixteen. 

           Theheads-updisplayinmysuitwaswarped. Icouldn’tseeagoddamnthingwhereitwasbent. TherecouldbeanenemystandingrightinfrontofmeandI’dneverknowit. 

           TheysayavetwhoisusedtotheJacketcangetareadonhissurroundingswithoutevenusingthecamera. Takesmorethaneyesinbattle. Youhavetofeeltheimpactpassingthroughlayersofceramicandmetalandintoyourbody. Readthepullofthetrigger. Feelthegroundthroughthesolesofyourboots. Takeinnumbersfromakaleidoscopeofgaugesandknowthestateofthefieldinaninstant. ButIcouldn’tdoanyofthat. Arecruitinhisfirstbattleknowsshit-all. 

           Breatheout. Breathein. 

           Mysuitwasrankwithsweat. Aterriblesmell. Snotwasseepingfrommynose,butIcouldn’twipeit. 

           Icheckedthechronometerbesidemydisplay. Sixty-oneminuteshadpassedsincethebattlestarted. Whataloadofshit. ItfeltlikeI’dbeenfightingformonths. 

           Ilookedleft,right.Up,down.Imadeafistinsideoneglove.