Descending Road - ISSUING FFDS by Dana W. Paxson

ISSUING FFDS

1563 4D

In a barricaded shop, two brown-clad men managed the distributions of beamers. Andrew received a carbine-sized beam gun studded with sensors and compensators, and featuring the same self-adjusting stock and grip he had seen in the corpos' guns Marra and Deen had given him. He ran his fingers along this gun’s flat-gray cerametal barrel, and down around the cartridge pod slung underneath.

“Nice machine, isn’t it?” Grendel‘s words made Andrew nod absently. He smiled at the big andro, and then fingered the pod release to check his mix of ammunition.

“We get shields?” Andrew asked. He clicked the pod back under the barrel, latching its feed to the pre-chamber.

“No. They’re short on them,” Ezzar said.

“They’re issuing FFDs for us,” Ellichik put in.

“FFDs?” Andrew looked around.

“Fast Feet and Ducking,” Grendel said. The laugh that followed was short.

The major radial understreets of the City, being beam-straight themselves for long stretches, made superb shooting galleries. A single large weapon mounted in such a corridor could keep it clear of anything living for whatever length of time it took to bring in reflective shields to deflect, or absorbent fog to dissipate, the blazes of energy. Such delays allowed freer movement of protected forces. Without such protection, those opposing had to use circumferential understreets, short interconnecting corridors, and stairs to avoid the long beam-covered places.

They all loaded up on ammunition, chemtorches, food, and protective gear. War helms lay before them in rows in a long narrow cubby, guarded by a pair of armed men. Fashion designers had taken these helmet shells from an even-more-ancient arsenal, turning them into raucous, flashy, impudent displays; now they had been carved back and refitted with current perceptual and protective tools: wide-spectrum, full-sphere vision and hearing, counterfire eye interfaces, energy dissipation layers, shock layers, auto-identifiers, neural monitors, even a sensi feed. Their bright festival colors now hid beneath matte black, augmented only by different set of narrow close-laid hatchings of color along the helms' edges: tiny blazons of the four different colls commanding the insurgency, the Coll Union.

One by one the new arrivals selected helms and donned them. Andrew‘s helm lining snuggled and molded itself to his face and neck and skull, the sensors kicked in, the thermal pump began balancing his cranial heat output. He bit down; the overlay filters loaded his eyes with infrared contours, a spike of UV here and there, a faint splash of gamma, long shifting undulations of radio emissions, all crammed into the eye’s narrow color registry and coded for information content. His olfactory system received a series of sharp odors, precisely spaced, crystal clear, triggering a varied set of memories. Autocalibration.

He wondered how the insurgents had gotten such good equipment, but suppressed the urge to ask. “I haven’t had one of these on since my militia days,” he said, dropping his voice to a mutter as it blasted in his earset; the others cringed momentarily and relaxed. “Sorry.” He squinted; ranging signals stacked themselves in the upper left quadrant of his viewfield.

A soft female voice said, “Ready for neural interface probe calibration? Just say yes.”

“Yes.” Andrew sensed flashes happening just outside his direct awareness. “Hey, why doesn’t this hurt?” he said.

“What?” Ezzar‘s voice.

“Calibration has been painless for the last five years,” the soft voice said. A tiny jector arm snaked down from each side of the helm to nestle near carotid and jugular. “Pharmacompensation system ready.”

“Calibration,” Andrew said to Ezzar. He peered at her, next to him, seeing her buglike protruding protective eyeshields.

She nodded. “It’s different out on the surface. These are adapted for the City‘s ranges. Oh, you can subvocalize to talk to Angie. He… she’s your helmbuddy.”

Hi, Angie. I’m Andrew. He tried it.

“Hi, Andrew. You’ve got some kind of flex in your chemistry I can’t follow. You human?” She sounded bright, happy.

Well, yes. What did you think? Andrew scratched his neck irritably.

“No problem. Just gotta build the flex into my side, that’s all. Wow. Nobody does that.” A surge of salt welled under his tongue, a flick of rage snapped in his blood, then came warmth like after sex. “Hey, Andrew, you’re doing all the work. I won’t have to coddle you.”

What are you talking about?

“You make your own drugs. Neat stuff. More ‘orphins than I can make, stims I can just detect…" the voice rattled off a long pharmacological list. “You sure you’re not andro, like Grendel over there? Even he doesn’t—“

This is all news to me. Andrew‘s mind spun. His body making its own drugs? Grant‘s words from his torture days came to him: "…it was just like I hit him with neroine. He’s going to sleep!”

As he shrugged into his carapiece, Andrew wondered again where the rebels had managed to get such good tech. This expensive stuff looked better than anything he’d seen in the militia.

“Time to go, come on,” Ellichik called softly in Andrew‘s earset.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	ISSUING FFDS 1563 4D In a barricaded shop, two brown-clad men managed the distributions of beamers. Andrew received a carbine-sized beam gun studded with sensors and compensators, and featuring the same self-adjusting stock and grip he had seen in the corpos' guns Marra and Deen had given him. He ran his fingers along this gun’s flat-gray cerametal barrel, and down around the cartridge pod slung underneath. “Nice machine, isn’t it?” Grendel‘s words made Andrew nod absently. He smiled at the big andro, and then fingered the pod release to check his mix of ammunition. “We get shields?” Andrew asked. He clicked the pod back under the barrel, latching its feed to the pre-chamber. “No. They’re short on them,” Ezzar said. “They’re issuing FFDs for us,” Ellichik put in. “FFDs?” Andrew looked around. “Fast Feet and Ducking,” Grendel said. The laugh that followed was short. The major radial understreets of the City, being beam-straight themselves for long stretches, made superb shooting galleries. A single large weapon mounted in such a corridor could keep it clear of anything living for whatever length of time it took to bring in reflective shields to deflect, or absorbent fog to dissipate, the blazes of energy. Such delays allowed freer movement of protected forces. Without such protection, those opposing had to use circumferential understreets, short interconnecting corridors, and stairs to avoid the long beam-covered places. They all loaded up on ammunition, chemtorches, food, and protective gear. War helms lay before them in rows in a long narrow cubby, guarded by a pair of armed men. Fashion designers had taken these helmet shells from an even-more-ancient arsenal, turning them into raucous, flashy, impudent displays; now they had been carved back and refitted with current perceptual and protective tools: wide-spectrum, full-sphere vision and hearing, counterfire eye interfaces, energy dissipation layers, shock layers, auto-identifiers, neural monitors, even a sensi feed. Their bright festival colors now hid beneath matte black, augmented only by different set of narrow close-laid hatchings of color along the helms' edges: tiny blazons of the four different colls commanding the insurgency, the Coll Union. One by one the new arrivals selected helms and donned them. Andrew‘s helm lining snuggled and molded itself to his face and neck and skull, the sensors kicked in, the thermal pump began balancing his cranial heat output. He bit down; the overlay filters loaded his eyes with infrared contours, a spike of UV here and there, a faint splash of gamma, long shifting undulations of radio emissions, all crammed into the eye’s narrow color registry and coded for information content. His olfactory system received a series of sharp odors, precisely spaced, crystal clear, triggering a varied set of memories. Autocalibration. He wondered how the insurgents had gotten such good equipment, but suppressed the urge to ask. “I haven’t had one of these on since my militia days,” he said, dropping his voice to a mutter as it blasted in his earset; the others cringed momentarily and relaxed. “Sorry.” He squinted; ranging signals stacked themselves in the upper left quadrant of his viewfield. A soft female voice said, “Ready for neural interface probe calibration? Just say yes.” “Yes.” Andrew sensed flashes happening just outside his direct awareness. “Hey, why doesn’t this hurt?” he said. “What?” Ezzar‘s voice. “Calibration has been painless for the last five years,” the soft voice said. A tiny jector arm snaked down from each side of the helm to nestle near carotid and jugular. “Pharmacompensation system ready.” “Calibration,” Andrew said to Ezzar. He peered at her, next to him, seeing her buglike protruding protective eyeshields. She nodded. “It’s different out on the surface. These are adapted for the City‘s ranges. Oh, you can subvocalize to talk to Angie. He… she’s your helmbuddy.” Hi, Angie. I’m Andrew. He tried it. “Hi, Andrew. You’ve got some kind of flex in your chemistry I can’t follow. You human?” She sounded bright, happy. Well, yes. What did you think? Andrew scratched his neck irritably. “No problem. Just gotta build the flex into my side, that’s all. Wow. Nobody does that.” A surge of salt welled under his tongue, a flick of rage snapped in his blood, then came warmth like after sex. “Hey, Andrew, you’re doing all the work. I won’t have to coddle you.” What are you talking about? “You make your own drugs. Neat stuff. More ‘orphins than I can make, stims I can just detect…" the voice rattled off a long pharmacological list. “You sure you’re not andro, like Grendel over there? Even he doesn’t—“ This is all news to me. Andrew‘s mind spun. His body making its own drugs? Grant‘s words from his torture days came to him: "…it was just like I hit him with neroine. He’s going to sleep!” As he shrugged into his carapiece, Andrew wondered again where the rebels had managed to get such good tech. This expensive stuff looked better than anything he’d seen in the militia. “Time to go, come on,” Ellichik called softly in Andrew‘s earset.