In two hours, he would no longer be able to run.

He would no longer be able to fight, no longer be able to dodge and duck. Two hours before the suit began to slow down. However, he needn't concern himself with that. Four hours until the Larvafern, deprived of laser-induced photosynthesis, would cease to emit oxygen. He needed power.Īfter only ten hours on Banshee, he was down to 24 percent of capacity. He would not, could not, stare at them any longer. And then, Engine once more, he pulled his attention away from the carnage, away from the grotesque sight of his fellow humans, some halfway out of their armor, their swollen features fast-frozen in the thin alien air. Scattered randomly about her on the hard canyon floor were the remains of other warriors, some twenty-five in all.Ī-team One, thought Felix from his hiding place at the far end of the enclosure. Her body shimmered gruesomely beneath the blaster's effect, exposing a meter- long gash in the armor. But the ant didn't seem to realize that-it kept killing her. He turned around and began the long difficult descent with the unhurried manner of a man with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Incredibly, he had but 63 percent power remaining after a mere five hours on the planet. Idly, he kicked at the remnant of his blazer and watched it for the long seconds it took to fall. There a dense unbroken coating of sand covered the plassteel completely, from biceps to fingers. The splotches were mostly thin, irregular streaks, except for those on his arms. Other parts of the suit bore gray-brown splotches of the sands which had clung to the black ant blood which had clung to the armor. The left shoulder was now dark green instead of black where a full twenty-second burst of heat ray had ruptured the thin outer covering of the plassteel. The stock looked worse, crumpled and split from having been used in a way its creators had never intended-as a club. It's barrel was warped from the heat of overload. The blazer-rifle lay at his feet, useless. 'Not on Banshee.' For even in this supposedly deserted area, he had seen thousands upon thousands of ants. 'Not here,' he said, gazing blankly at the western foothills.

John steakley armor 2