Manxome Foe

8

“You godda be pocking kidding me.”

Berg had reported to the armorer, as ordered. He was a Marine. You got an order and you said “Aye, aye” and carried it out to the best of your ability.

Portana, for his part, had apparently been briefed. And, for once, he’d acted like a Marine. He’d set Berg to work refitting the gun mounts. Part of what had held Portana up was that the Mark Six suit had a different traverse/aim system than the Mark Five. Besides having to be refitted, all of the guns for the suits had to have a new mount installed. It was easy if tedious work and Berg had to admit that it was about his level of knowledge. If he’d had to fit one of the suits by himself he’d have been at it all day and probably gotten it wrong.

But it didn’t mean they were getting buddy-buddy. Portana had given him the task and left him to it. Berg, for his part, became inured to hours of mindless refitting and zero conversation. He also was getting inured to Filipino salsa. Portana, as was his right, played it constantly in the armory. The same ten songs, over and over. If Berg ever met the whiny bitch who was singing he was going to give her a piece of his mind.

Berg didn’t even look up at the curse from the armorer. He just continued unscrewing the mount from Corwin’s gun; the new mount ready to be installed sat on the floor by his side.

“Modderpocker,” the armorer continued. “T’ere is no pocking way I can get t’at done!”

“What’s up?” Berg asked. Other than a ritual “good morning” and “good afternoon” it was the first time he’d addressed Portana in three days.

“Neber min’,” Portana said nervously.

“That sounds ominous.” Berg looked over at him. The armorer was chewing his lip.

“Pock,” Portana said, shaking his head. “I pock up. Pig time.”

“How?” Berg asked, seriously.

“I been habing problem wit’ t’e suits,” Portana said. “Feedback circuit goin’ ape-maulk.”

“I’ve heard the scuttlebutt,” Berg said. “The guys are saying they can’t hit chither with them.”

“T’ere’s a software upgra’,” Portana said, shaking his head. “I missed it. Was in a main’nance message. We so busy I jus’ pocking miss it! Now ebery pocking suit habe to be updated an’ t’en it habe to be recalibrated!”

“Maulk,” Berg said, grinding his teeth. “Calibration” was the longest part of fitting. Essentially, Portana was going to have to start over. Worse, he was going to have to tell Top why he had to start over.

“You sure you have to recalibrate?” Berg said.

“Don’ see a way around it,” Portana replied.

“You’ve got the previous calibration results for all the suits, right?” Berg said.

“Sure.”

“No way to use those as a base?” Berg asked.

“You gonna write the algorit’m?” Portana asked. “I know code, sure, bu’ no t’at good.”

“Hmmm…” Berg said. “Permission to take a little walk, Sergeant?”

“Why?” Portana asked.

“Gonna take a little trip to the science side…”

“Hmmm…” Miriam said, looking at the updated code. “This is a little rough. Are you sure this is the right update?”

“How is it rough?” Portana asked, looking over her shoulder. He could barely read the lines and lines of machine code. He’d had coding as part of his training and knew it well enough. But the linguist was scrolling down faster than he could read normal text much less keep up with the code.

“It could be a lot tighter,” Miriam replied, opening up another screen and dumping a copy of the code into it. “The logic is too complicated. There are shortcuts.”

“We just need to see if we can use the prior results to get a close approximate of proper feedback loops, Miss Moon,” Berg said.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Miriam replied. “But let me work on this a bit. I’ll give you something in a couple of hours.”

“Portana!” The first sergeant bellowed.

“Yes, Firs’ Sergean’!” The armorer jumped to his feet. He’d been installing the new code for the last two days and had barely gotten to calibration. He only had three suits done so far and he knew Top was going to be riding his butt soon enough. The “re-refitting” wasn’t making anyone happy.

“Gunny Neely was just checking out his suit,” Top said. “He says whatever you did was great. It’s tracking like a panther. Good work.”

“T’ank you, Firs’ Sergean’,” Portana replied.

“What’s the schedule look like?”

“T’e patch is speeding up t’e fittings,” Portana said. “I catch up to schedule in a day or so. No more.”

“Glad to hear it,” Top said. “Two-Gun, how’s it hanging?”

“One lower than the other, Top,” Berg said. He was “refitting” Seeley. With the wearer’s previous biometric data and Miriam’s patch all that was required was updating the software then testing for fine motor items. They could even use the biometric data from their Mark Fives, cutting the refit time down to a couple of hours rather than the damned near a shift it had been taking. He was pretty sure they’d be ahead of schedule in two days much less back to it. Then he could get back to the mounts. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

“You listen to Portana,” the first sergeant said. “He’s a wonder.”

“T’ank you,” Portana said as the first sergeant left.

“You’re welcome,” Berg replied.

“You going to tell him t’e patch was suppose’ to be pre-install?”

“Nope,” Berg said. “Besides, the patch we had was crap. When we get back, you can submit the one Miriam wrote along with the biometric replacement method. You should get a nice pat on the back out of that one. Hell, the whole Corps has been wrestling with these things.”

“Ain’ my pocking patch,” Portana pointed out.

“Miriam’s not going to take the credit,” Berg said. “She hates anybody knowing she’s smart. And all I did was get her. I’d suggest you admit you had others on the crew help you with the code, but otherwise take the credit and run.”

“Why you being nice to me?” Portana asked.

“Dude, we’re on the same team,” Berg replied tiredly. “I cover your back, you cover mine. That’s what being on a team is about. I guess they don’t cover that in armorer’s school.”

“I was infantry,” Portana said a few moments later.

“Really?” Berg replied, looking up. “Why’d you switch?”

“Din’t get along,” Portana said, going to the next suit. “Infantry all about getting along. Band o’ Brot’ers and pocking maulk. Armorer, you know your maulk nobody pock wit’ you. And I know my maulk. T’is refi’ maulk… I pock up. Firs’ sergean’ no need tell me. I tell me. I pock up. I neber pock up like t’at. Pocking piss me off. I neber pock up like t’at! Bu’ infantry. Eben if you good, don’ matter. You ge’ along or you no good. Ge’ along wit’ team. Ge’ along wit’ sergeant. Ge’ along wit’ first sergeant. All abou’ ge’ along. T’at why t’is piss me off. Wha’ pocking good am I? I can’ refi’ t’e pocking suits? Can’ ge’ along. Can’ refi’ suits. Pocking piss me off.”

Berg wasn’t too sure what to say. He’d never had to counsel a depressed Filipino armorer.

“You’re good at what you do,” he replied finally. “I got fitted by Lurch the first time around. I thought he was good. You’re better.”

“I know I better,” Portana said. “I pocking train him. I trained Qual Armorers. I bery pocking good. T’at why I’m piss off.”

“As to getting along,” Berg said. “You could turn your music down.”

The armorer didn’t reply as he moved on to the next suit. Then he paused.

“Iss my sis’er.”

“What?” Berg asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.

“It is my sis-ter,” Portana said, slowly and distinctly, making sure he got all the consonants in. “T’e singer. Iss my sis’er.”

“Oh,” Berg said, looking around Seeley’s suit. “She’s… got a great voice.”

“I wan’ everybody like her,” Portana said, uploading to the last suit, then straightening up. He looked over at Berg and shrugged. “I wan’ everybody hear my sis’er. She in a ban’. T’ey good. I wan’ everybody like. Iss hard her ge’ in a ban’. We… well… Iss hard.”

Over the next few hours, in bits and snatches when the “fittees” were canned and their external mikes turned off, Berg learned more about the armorer than he’d ever thought possible.

Portana had been born in one of the worst slums in the Philippines, a massive shanty town backed on Manila’s garbage dump. He’d never known his father. His mother had died when he was seven, leaving him in charge of a six-year-old sister.

How he’d survived was glossed over. Except on the one point that his “sis’er” had never been pimped out. He was proud of the fact that she’d managed to avoid the most common method of survival for orphans, girls and boys, of the bario. Given that force was generally involved in the early stages, how he’d prevented it was also glossed over.

A few of his anecdotes, though, had given a clue — stories of gang fights with bodies strewn in the refuge-filled alleyways, bodies considered by the police to be less than the garbage they had survived, gave a hint. Thievery. Drug-dealing. But he was proud that he’d managed to keep his sister somewhat fed and more or less virgin. Nobody paid for it, anyway. And nobody took it, either.

The Navy still had a quiet recruiting program in the Philippines. Join the Navy for five years and earn a permanent residency in the U.S. Most Filipinos went Navy supply. For some odd reason, the tough little Filip had joined the Marines. And gone Infantry, then into Force Recon.

But the life on the teams didn’t suit him. He didn’t “fi’ in.” A retraining program had been arranged. For a guy who had made his first zip gun when he was barely eight and stolen his first car by bypassing the computerized ignition controls when he was nine, armorer was a piece of cake. And it didn’t matter if you “go along.” All you had to be was very good. And Portana was very good.

“I’m surprised you could get a TS clearance,” was all Berg said as the armorer wound down.

“I neber lie abou’ it,” Portana replied. “I tell recrui’er. I tell agen’s. T’ey no like t’ey can’ check my backgroun’ too much. Mos’ people I know dead or gone. An’ t’ey no like go in t’e bario,” he added with a grin.

“How’s your sister?” Berg asked.

“Marry,” Portana said. “Good guy. Singapore guy. She sing in ban’. Wan’ to be a star bu’ she don’ play t’e game. Jus’ like brot’er. T’ink she star’ have babies soon. Always be a star to me.”

“Me too, man,” Berg said, shaking his head.

“Wha’ you think abou’ her music?” Portana asked.

“I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Berg said. “But…”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’ll stick with Goth and metal, if it’s all the same to you.”

“T’at stuff rot your brain.”