All the Wrong Moves Read Free

Robotics before we could make sense of the schematics. All the while the weird-looking piece of equipment stood in a corner of the CHU that served as our test facility.
    Excuse me. That’s C-H-U, pronounced choo. It’s short for Containerized Housing Unit. Our site has five of ’em. Two are linked together to form our test and administrative center. One serves as a combination rec room, dining facility and workout area. The latter is used exclusively by Sergeant Cassidy, by the way. The rest of us wouldn’t be caught dead on a Universal Gym.
    The remaining two CHUs constitute our sleeping quarters while forward deployed, e.g., stuck out here in Dry Springs. The three guys occupy one. I share the other with Pen. Unfortunately, she snorts and whinnies while asleep as well as when she’s awake.
    I think I mentioned that we’re pretty much at the bottom of the DARPA food chain. The thing is, even DARPA’s rejects are state-of-the-art. That’s where the “advanced” in Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency comes in, you see. As a result, our test lab is crammed with enough computers and high-tech instrumentation to re-orbit the International Space Station.
    Our test engineer is a skinny, nervous twitch by the name of Dr. Brian Balboa. Naturally, we immediately anointed him “Rocky” but I challenge you to find anyone less Sylvester Stallone-ish. Rocky isn’t as out-there brilliant as Pen, but he’s darn good at making all those black boxes of instrumentation sing. Remind me to tell you sometime why he’s no longer assigned to DARPA Headquarters.
    Even Rocky had trouble with EEEK’s computerized components, however. And the more frustrated my team became, the more the contrivance smirked at us. I kid you not. With its head full of wires, crossed arms and casually bent knees, all it needed to complete an air of sardonic amusement was a cigarette dangling from its lips.
    “Look.”
    As agitated as the rest of us, the Harrison Robotics rep stabbed a finger at a monitor. He was bald as Britney Spears during her weird phase and at least two hundred fifty pounds heavier. His name was Benson, Al Benson. My team had instantly dubbed him All Bent.
    “You folks have to stop thinking of these as machine parts and . . .”
    “They are machine parts.”
    That came from O’Reilly. Naturally.
    All Bent scowled and directed his comments to me. “We designed the exoskeleton as a natural extension of the human body.”
    “Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “how many human bodies has it extended so far?”
    “Several.”
    He didn’t quite meet my eyes. Not a good sign.
    “Including yours?” I wanted to know.
    “Well . . . No.”
    “Why didn’t Harrison Robotics send us someone with hands-on experience?”
    All Bent squirmed and provided a reluctant answer. “One of our engineers broke a leg when a brace failed. Another slammed into a concrete wall at full speed. He’s still on medical leave. But we’ve worked out the bugs in the power unit,” he rushed to assure me. “You’ll be in complete control at all times.”
    I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box, but I’m no dummy. I know how many billions DARPA pours into the civilian sector to develop new technologies. Harrison Robotics was a small firm. Until now, the company had specialized in computerized artificial limbs. EEEK would take them into the much broader—and far more profitable—arena of direct combat support. Naturally they’d brush aside little things like broken legs and head-on collisions with concrete walls in pursuit of Big Bucks.
    On the other hand, if their device lived up to its hype, maybe it would increase the capability of our war fighters. The robotic legs could carry infantry grunts farther, over rougher terrain. The frame attached to the spine could support heavier loads of equipment. Mechanical arms could push or pull extreme weights.
    I have to admit such esoteric matters as extending troop endurance and improving combat