Archive for the Exoskeletons Category

Demo Day! Exotroopers FAQ

Posted in Exoskeletons, one-shot with tags on July 16, 2013 by David N. Brown

For today, here’s a couple excerpts from “XX Exotroopers” in progress.  One of the things I have been doing for this project is fleshing out or simply writing down details of the finbacks’ technology, tactics and philosophy that in large part were always in my mind, but that I never took the time to lay down explicitly.  So, here goes:

Here,” Zed announced sonorously, “are the doctrines of the exotroopers corps.

First: The best way to stop a bullet is to shoot the other man first:

Second: The best way to cover your rear end is with someone else’s front.

Third: Practice makes perfect, or perfectly imperfect.

Fourth: If you had to fight your way in, it is time to get out.

Fifth: Even a magic bullet is still one bullet.

Sixth: A bad can opener is better than a good Swiss army knife.

Seventh: If all your eggs are bad, they might as well  be in one basket.

Eighth: Never bring a gun to a tank fight.

Ninth: Given effective range, an axe beats anything.

Tenth: Never go into battle with someone who cannot carry you back.”

The Flea and the Tick were unmistakably nervous as they stepped out into the center of the common room in full armor.  The three women candidates were seated on folding chairs.  “It just so happens,” Martinez announced, “that we have in here today our two most experienced hercegs.  Both of these men have literally logged more time in combat than any other member of the corps, virtually all of it together.  If you have any questions about our technology, weapons and tactics, feel free to ask them now.”

After a moment of silence, Dragon raised her hand.  “There’s just one thing I want to know,” she said.  “When you’re in all that armor… what do you do to pee?”

The Flea and the Tick looked at each other, clearly uncomfortable notwithstanding the toilet-seat collar around the Tick’s neck.  It was the Flea who finally ventured to say, “Do?”


The session went downhill from there.  “What do we do when we have to stop tanks?” the Tick repeated rhetorically.  “We die.  Law of averages, we jebanje die, it’s jebanjetanks!”

All right, here’s how it works,” the Flea said.  “No, you can’t really run faster in an exosuit, because the exo legs are only as long as your legs.  We have leg extensions, these stilt things, that let us go really fast just by taking longer steps, but mostly they just left us way up high when everybody’s shooting at us.  What you can do if you rig it right is go fast for longer, by letting the suit take some of the load off your muscles.  It’s like being able to sprint through a long distance race.”

The fins are radiators, they give us infrared stealth,” the Tick said. “Ceramic in the armor absorbs infrared radiation, but it can be saturated by heat from our bodies and the suit components.  There’s tubing running through the whole suit that collects the heat with radiator fluid, that’s water with some extra chemicals, and then runs it to the fins where it’s dissipated by refrigerants and plain old air flow.  The same tubes collect sweat, and yeah, urine, which just goes into the mix.  After the first few hours, it’s going to level off at about 60 percent radiator fluid, 40 percent sweat and 10 percent piss.”

Martinez stepped in to answer another question.  “The `fins’ are also housings for the suit’s two generators.  The hoses running from the fins to the hips are conduits for radiator fluid, hydraulic fluid and even fuel, which is stored primarily behind the breastplate but also in secondary, rubberized tanks.  A squire’s exoskeleton has the same basic assemblies, but with a much smaller radiator component.  Because of that, and the thinner armor, a squire does not have full stealth capabilities, though under normal conditions our infrared signatures are still less than half that of an unhielded human body.”

We get our rations through tubes in the mask,” the Flea said. “There’s two tubes, one to drink and one for food.  The drink’s water mixed with sugar and electro-stuff, in one big bag in back, and the food’s like tooth paste, it even has a mint flavor, it’s in a couple packs under the shoulder pads.  And for anything else, there’s an extra straw…” He demonstrated, unrolling a rubber straw to drink from a liquor bottle.

If it’s my choice, I only pack one thing, my 3 cm auto grenade launcher,” the Tick said.  He pointed to a weapon that, apart from the addition of a stock and pistol grip, was identical to a design fielded by the Soviets.  “It takes 30-round drums or belt feed, and we’ve got a few different types of ammo, basic frag, shaped-charge and flechettes.  The only other thing I want is the standard wrist launcher for the really close calls: double barrel, 43 mm, always with one smoke and one flechette canister.  Kaka for accuracy, but if you really need it, anywhere in their general direction will count.  Just give them one dose of phosphorous and a few dozen flechettes, and get out while they’re sorting themselves out.”

I dunno, I use lotsa different stuff,” the Flea said.  “I guess my favorite’s the MG 45.  It’s literally practically a hundred years old, something the Nazis built.  8 milimeter, belt feed, 25 rounds per second.”

What about the Luggage?” the Tick interjected.

Hey! You said you wouldn’t talk about that if I didn’t…”

Frankly, the difference in armor between different exoskeleton models and configurations is of minimal importance to survivablility,” Martinez said.  “The protection of a standard 311A2 breastplate is equivalent to almost half a meter of homogeneous steel armor.  Any weapon capable of penetrating even half that thickness will invariably inflict fatal injuries to the occupant by shock force alone.  The greatest value of the armor plating is in fact simply in weighing down the exoskeleton, which improves controllability as well as the ability to absorb such things as explosions, falls, and the recoil of your own weapons.”

The Tick pointed to his collar.  “You want to know why I wear this, why don’t you tell me why women wear heels!  I just do, isn’t that enough?”

Demo Day! Zed Gets Bombed

Posted in Exoskeletons, one-shot with tags , on June 11, 2013 by David N. Brown

As a follow-up to the first Demo Day, here’s another self-contained entry in the “XX Exotroopers” project. This is a scene I wrote out this weekend, which represents my original idea for an opening chapter for the story. Since writing out “Zed Fights A Girl”, I have been debating whether to use this scene at all. Still, I felt like it deserves to be written and read, and I would welcome feedback on both demos.

It was the beginning of the third year of the war between the alliances of Serbia and Montenegro and Albania and Kosova. Serbia had seized almost half of its former province of Kosovo, nearly splitting the remaining territory in three pieces, and occupied a part of Northern Albania, while the world gnashed its teeth even as the thousands of Shqiptars (as ethnic Albanians called themselves) took the side of the Serbs. Through it all, Serbia’s greatest champions had been its hercegs, known to the wider world as finbacks, the latter-day knights who wore the angular armor of the world’s first and, for practical purposes, only exotrooper corps.

But the shoe was well and truly on the other foot. Bulgaria had made an alliance with the Albanians, for the transparent purpose of reclaiming historic territories in southeastern territories. Bulgars and Shqiptars had overrun southern Serbia from either side, aided by ethnic insurrections and even uprisings of disgruntled Serbs. Even so, Serbia had held on stubbornly to occupied Kosovo, especially to the enclave of Kosovo Polje, mere kilometers from the Kosovar capital of Prishtina. The municipality was holy ground to the Serbs, named for a shallow basin between the rivers Lab and Sitnica where the Serbs (and, per their persistent and plausible traditions, Shqiptars too) had fought their most celebrated battle against the Medieval invasion of the Ottomans. It was Jerusalem and the Alamo rolled into one, studded with graves, monuments and churches. It was on the bank of the river Lab at the far end of the ancient battlefield that Serbia now made its last stand, with a full-strength platoon of forty exotroopers. So great was the Shqiptars’ respect for the ground and the fearsome finbacks that a fighting force of forty tanks and more than five hundred mechanized infantry stood at bay across the river Sitnica rather than pressing the attack.

In the heart of a UN museum and administrative center, the leader of the finbacks stalked. This was Zaratustra, aka Zed. A crown of steel rebar rods upon his pyramidal helmet marked him as commander, and the wing-like radiators that earned the finbacks their name gave him the look of a prince of fallen angels. Even without the crown, none could have beheld his bearing or that of the other troopers without knowing his station. They would have known that what his men felt, first and foremost, was fear, tempered only by the sure knowledge that it was safer to fight at his side than without him, much less against him.

Only one person ventured to stay by Zed’s side as he paced, wearing lighter armor. This was Martinez, a squire support trooper. “Sir,” said the clearly female squire, “Flank team has visual confirmation of engineering vehicles, including a bridge, approaching the bank to the north of their present position. They need your confirmation to engage.”
“I give no confirmation,” Zed said in a deep but rasping voice. He jabbed the air with a fist whose third finger had been replaced with a rigid metal prosthesis. “On the contrary, I order Flank to withdraw to the far side of the Lab. We know the game already. They mean to strike against the flank, and perhaps cut off our retreat. But they know full well that they must also effect at least one crossing of the Lab. Then they shall make themselves doubly vulnerable, and we shall let them.”

Zed’s full name Albert Zaratustra Schwartz. He was not a Serb, or even a Slav, but a German national who had gotten himself incarcerated in Serbia for murdering a fellow member of a neo-Nazi cult known as the Ophites. His mental state was one of schizoid psychosis so profound and pervasive that interested clinicians had published learned dissertations for the purpose of classifying what was wrong with him. His physiological state, from his strange build to his evident obliviousness to pain, was no less unique, inspiring some to speculate of either evolution in action or some secret program of genetic engineering. It had been enough to inspire his captors to take him for an otherwise-disastrous attempt to train convicts for the exotrooper corps, and they had been increasingly alarmed as he not only succeeded but rose to the highest ranks. Martinez was kept as much as possible by his side, officially as his aide, but in truth his handler and overseer for the Serbs and the Ophite order that had insinuated itself at many levels of their government.

Martinez stepped to one side at a hail from her superiors, one which would not be heard over the squad channel. The voice that came was clearly male, but high and slightly nasal. “Martinez, what is your status?”
“Dr. Nibeaux,” she said, “I am with Zaratustra in the administrative building. So far, his battle plan is effective. The Kosovars are pursuing a flank attack rather than an engagement on the polje. Zed has already devised a strategy to hold them off. It will be enough to cover a withdrawal, or even a counterattack. Call the Lieutenant. Dreadlocks’ platoon is in Novo Brdo; they can reach Sitinica within the hour!”

“Zaratustra is under express orders to make no move to retreat, and Lt. Princip and Sergeant Mihan are under express orders not to divert additional forces to relieve him,” Nibeaux said. “Kosovo Polje is strategically vital, but no less so than other theaters.”

“Sir, respectfully, the only thing Kosovo Polje is good for is making dead Serbs!”
“That will be all, Overseer. You are to assist Zaratustra with any request. You are not to counsel him on strategy, nor will I discuss it any further with you. Remain in the center, and await my orders.”
A cry came from Point Squad: “Incoming aircraft!”

At Novo Brdo, four finbacks and their squires stood impatiently around their encampment. A sergeant with a headdress of chains on his helmet was making another query whether to do something, anything. Two other finbacks, one with a tire belt around his pelvis and the other with a toilet seat around his neck, were playing cards. A fourth finback in the heavier armor of a tank destroyer was cutting a road wheel from an APC into a distinctly floral shape that matched similar trophies already arrayed in ornamental patterns on his armor. The finback with the tire around his waist paused from collecting his winnings to check a chirping smartphone. “Guys, hey guys!” he said. “Zeds being bombed by Bulgarians!… Say, that sounds like it should be funny.”

The finbacks’ Russian-built 311A combat exoskeleton had originally been designed with fully mechanized mounts for their weapons. Trials had quickly established that the armatures were useless under virtually all combat conditions, prone to jam or break down in routine use, even more easily discombobulated by hostile fire, and impossible to calibrate for accurate fire with a recoilling firearm. But the concept had been salvaged for a special piece of equipment, which Zed bore on his back as he stepped forth into a rain of fire from the skies.

From either shoulder, a mechanical arm unfolded, each one supporting a pair of surface-to-air missiles. Each missile’s targeting system was hooked in to a miniature radar dish that Zed bore on his forearm shield. Exhaust scorched the ground as Zed fired two missiles after a pair of ground-attack jets banking for a second pass against Flank. The hindmost lost half its tail to a direct hit, and made a marginally-controlled dive for the Lab, while its partner made a rapid ascent. Zed strode forward, pivoting back and forth to search the skies. He ignored a circling helicopter, but locked in on a trio of distant needles.

The needles rapidly grew into long, dart-like crafts with wings and tail joined in a single triangle. As they closed, it decelerated rapidly, from Mach .7 down to 0.5 in a split second. Zed waited for the wings of the first to swing forward before he fired again. The leader rolled to dodge the missile handily, but the second was caught by a proximity detonation while its wings were still in motion. The damaged wing jammed halfway, and a wild effort to regain control only sent the plane in a wild tumble into a distant hill.

An insect-like squatter drone rolled to Zed’s side, with four 23 mm cannons blasting and eight anti-aircraft missiles ready to fire. The leader veered off, its wings returning to delta position as it soared upward, while the hindmost rushed in. Zed fired his last missile at the same moment that the jet started blasting away with a pair of 3 cm cannons on either side of the fuselage. Its passage cut two lines of fist sized divots with Zed precisely between them. “Three blind mice!” Zed shouted. “Three blind mice!” But the pilot was obviously past hearing, even if it had been possible to hear. The guns still blazed, but the plane’s flight path was as blind as a ghost ship, and in a moment it went into a ponderous yaw that drove its shredded fuselage straight into the polje’s hallowed earth.

The squatter dropped into a static position on the axles of its six wheels and began launching missiles at another wave of incoming ground-pounders, while a squire dismounted and ran to Zed’s side with more missiles. Martinez’ voice sounded in Zed’s ear: “The Kosovars have fallen back from the Lab, but it looks like it was as much from friendly fire as from us. Flank took five casualties, and Point lost their squatter. When we engaged the Kosovars’ engineering group, the Bulgars came in and started firing indiscriminately. We have visual confirmation of at least one hypercopter.”

“Flank is to withdraw immediately. All available mortars are to fire on main Kosovar force. Rook Squad and Bishop, advance with highest possible speed. Rook shall engage in a frontal assault with area suppression fire, and Bishop shall strike for the flank with point-target weapons fire. Concentrate fire on support and logistics targets, and close to minimum range.”

As he spoke, he jabbed his prosthesis and then raised the dish on his left arm toward a particular point in the air, just before an aircraft seemed to materialize with a thunderclap in the air above them like a starship might emerge from hyperspace. The effect was exactly why the Bulgarians’ supersonic lifting-body helicopter was known as the hypercopter. The lozenge-shaped craft came barreling down with its broad rotor blades rigid, until it lost enough speed for the blades to spin in hovering flight. Accepted wisdom dictated that the hypercopter could blast a target and then return to high speed before any effective weapon could be directed against it. Two missiles straight into the cockpit proved that common wisdom had not accounted for Zed.

Even as the 10-million Euro terror dropped out of the sky, the full onslaught ensued. Ground pounders swooped down like vultures, strafing the squads that advanced across the polje. A second hypercopter swept in from the flank, launching a salvo of missiles. Two made a crater where the drone squatted, and two more streaked straight for Zed, until they crashed together in midair. The helicopter then streaked away, just in time to dodge Zed’s missile. That was when the jet returned, decelerating even more dramatically than before and finally rearing back momentarily on vertical-takeoff jets to hover at a thousand meters’ range. A huge cannon in the nose of the plane blew holes half a meter wide on either side of Zed, at virtually the same moment that his last shot blew the plane in half.

Zed looked over his shoulder, and gave no indication or surprise to see that his squire was gone. Martinez lunged for the door, with a missile tube under each arm, when she froze at the voice in her ear. “Martinez,” said Nibeaux, “your orders are… go.”

“Yes, slay a thousand at my right hand, and ten thousand at my left!” Zed shouted. “But I shall stand, for you are but men, and it is decreed by the Will of all Wills that no hand of man shall slay me. And woe to you, and woe to the world for that! And woe to me as well!”

But there was no answer from the skies, for even the roar of the ground-pounders was receding. Then sound came anew from the Sitnica, gunfire, and shouts of surprise and terror, and the dull boom that accompanied a lazy red fireball of an exploded fuel tanker. Zed jogged for the administrative center, even as he waved for his men to come forward. “Come to me, my people!” he shouted. “It may seem all is lost, and perhaps it is. Yet stay by my side, and you may live, for it is not in the measure of my destiny that I should die this day!”
Then hercegs and squires rushed forward, some smashing through the very walls. Zed waved them forward from the steps of the center, shouting instructions. At last, Martinez jogged forward to join them. That was when she heard the sound of the jets, returning.

Zed pivoted on his heels, just as the first bombs fell. There were half a dozen planes, with about 2500 kilos of explosives each. The administrative center toppled like a sand castle hit with a stick of dynamite, and Zed faced the falling ruin with his fists thrust into the air.

Within an hour, there were no more sounds of battle. Then there was a hum, that proved to be a single squatter drone. Sgt. Dreadlocks drove, and the tank destroyer known as Sunflower hung from the back. Dreadlocks halted at the edge of the rubble that had been the administrative center, and Sunflower dismounted to plunge into the rubble alone. Blocks of 500 kilos and more were flung carelessly aside, and looser debris flung away like handfuls of sand. At last, Sunflower emerged again, carrying the bedraggled but breathing Martinez.

The sound of the drone quickly receded, and silence prevailed again. Then there was a faint sound, like a rat under the floorboards, from the thickly-piled front of the debris field. The sounds grew louder, and the debris began to shift and stir visibly. At last, there was a veritable eruption, a cloud of dust and a cascade of chunks of concrete, all from a fist that burst forth with a metal central digit thrust to the skies.

Demo Day: Zed Fights A Girl!

Posted in Exoskeletons, one-shot with tags , on May 29, 2013 by David N. Brown

Over the last week, there has been a truly shocking development in my writing career: In the interests of testing my abilities on something new and different, I wrote a romance film fan fic. To make up for it and at the same time try out what I came up with in something more my speed, I decided to write a “demo” for an odd notion of a project that came from reader feedback: In essence, it has been suggested to me (I think maybe by more than one person!) that I try doing more with females in the “Exotroopers” franchise. I never saw this as especially workable, as the only female character ever to recur is Martinez (who was supposed to have been one of a pair of witches who appear way back in Walking Dead), and the prevailing themes and atmosphere has always fallen solidly in “superjock” territory. I don’t care for introducing new characters, either, particularly since one of the things I find most appealing about writing for the Exotroopers is that they are supposed to stay the same story to story. Still, I gave it enough thought to envision a way to make it work, and at long last I felt ready to try at least a preliminary vignette for this project, working title “XX EXOTROOPERS!”

Lt. Princip, chief instructor of the exotrooper corps, stood in full battle armor to meet the candidates, complete with the barbed-wire crown of thorns that adorned the pyramidal peak of his helmet. Beside him were Lt. Albert Zaratustra Schwartz, aka Zed, Acting Sergeant Zotgjakt, and a woman named Juanita Martinez. All of them were also in armor: Zed wore a crown of rebar rods on his helmet, Zotgjakt was in the heavier exoskeleton of a tank destroyer, and Martinez wore the light exoskeleton of a squire support trooper, minus helmet. She served in the corps in a squire’s capacity, but her real station was as a high-ranking official of Serbia’s bioweapons program, and semi-official handler to Zed.

“A thousand candidates were screened from the military forces of Serbia and Montenegro, as well as others from abroud,” Martinez said. “These candidates were deemed worthy of consideration.” Princip examined them, all three of them, and all of them women.
After a moment’s examination, he pointed at one. “Can we even fit her in the base chassis?” The woman was 1.5 meters tall in combat boots, and did not look to be a day over twenty or one gram over 45 kilos.
“It would take modification,” Zotgjakt said, “but we have done more for less.”

“That is Senka,” Martinez said. “She is credited with 35 combat kills, 13 of which were made without use of a firearm. She was also recently cleared of wrongdoing in the stabbing of three Montenegrin soldiers.” Senka, whose name meant “shadow”, smiled and blew Zed a kiss. Then she pulled down her jacket sleeve to expose not less than half a dozen perfectly straight scars on her arm. Zed raised a steel prosthesis that stuck out from his four-fingered right fist in unspoken reply.

Princip shook his head, but looked to the others. “She could be promising,” he said, eying a heavy-set woman on the end.
“That is Nana Papos,” Martinez said. “She is a skilled mechanic and rated to drive IFV’s.”
“My people have a saying, that a woman is made for bearing,” Zotgjakt said. “She looks like she was made for bearing Zastavas.”
A third candidate was of more ordinary proportions, about 1.7 meters tall and on the subtly muscular side. “She is Sgt. Dragoslava Lazarevic, nicknamed the Dragon,” Martinez said. “She is a decorated sniper with 75 confirmed combat kills. I am given to understand that she is a person of interest in a number of others. ”
Princip shrugged. “No need to discuss that for the moment,” he said. “Our concern is and remains, is there any way to fit these- personnel into a combat unit?”

“It was proposed that I take command,” Martinez said. “I have made it clear that I have no wish for such a station. I have too many other duties to handle the responsibilities of command, and, as high command itself is finally recognizing, the responsibilities and skill sets of a squire and a finback are not interchangeable. If and when I am to serve the corps, I can do it best as the former.” She did not add that the position of a squire was the best one in which to monitor Zaratustra.

“Integration can be achieved quite simply,” Zaratustra said. “We have a prospective squad with no officer. I am an officer currently without a squad. I will evaluate them, and if I am satisfied of their worth, I will take them as my command.”
The woman called Dragon stepped forward. “We are all Serb officers, and you are a psychotic foreigner they pulled from the prisons,” she said. “What should we have to do to prove our worth to you?”

The finback known as the Flea tore into the main training room of the exotrooper base. “Guys! Hey guys!” he shouted. His partner the Tick halted practice with a sour grunt, and the tank destroyer Sunflower looked up from sharpening a sword made from a helicopter rotor. “Zed’s about to fight some chick! Without armor!”

The space had been a large jail cell, with concrete walls at the rear and on the right side. The Flea and the Tick chatted as they watched, while Sunflower stood silently beside Martinez, occasionally giving her a brief but soulful glance. Princip stood with his arms sternly crossed, and Zotgjakt looked in through a window at the rear. The woman mechanic and the Dragon were on either side of Princip. It was the little “shadow” who faced Zed inside the cell, and she was smiling.

“Well, I say, a woman can pummel a man as well as a man,” the Flea said.
“No, a woman can pummel you as well as a man,” the Tick countered. “And as far as I’m concerned, the jury is out on what Zed is.”
Even out of armor, Zed was huge, easily 1.8 meters high yet with a distinctly stout figure. He wore a tight black jumpsuit, and his head was shaved and pale as any exotrooper’s would be. For him, however, bald and white seemed to fit naturally. He still had the prosthesis that replaced the third finger of his right hand, but it was heavily sheathed in duct tape and rubber. “Listen to me, very carefully,” he said in his deep but rasping voice. “My men are under express orders to do nothing to intervene. It will be us, and us alone. These shall be the terms: We shall test our strength and skill against each other with hands, feet and skill. No attempt shall be made to appropriate any other weapon. At a time of my choosing, I shall try to kill you. It will not be a test or a feint. If you can stop me or escape me, you shall win. If you fail, you shall fail. Do you accept these terms?”
“Hey!” the Flea shouted, “hey, he totally, seriously means it!”

Senka nodded, and grinned. “Then I swear,” Zed said, “by all the gods that are or never were, that it shall be as I have said.”
He extended a hand, and Senka shook. She was still shaking when she kicked him in the crotch with a steel-toed boot. It was clear from the sound that contact was direct, forceful and prolonged. The Flea groaned and covered his visor, and the Tick muttered, “Beginner’s mistake…”

There was no hint of pain on Zed’s face. He let her hand go free as if clutching for himself, but it awe only to catch hold of his adversary’s calf, even as her foot continued to dig in. She screamed, not for mercy but only in sheer, wordless terror as he lifted her up. He did not throw her, but hoisted her up to swing her straight down at the floor with velocity that was assuredly terminal. At the last split second, Zed jerked her back and dropper her on a bed. “Try again,” he said. “I can wait.”

Shadow grinned like a shark. Her gaze sized up every angle. She knew he had allowed her to land the kick, just to prove a point. She still did not believe his speed and reflexes were equal to hers, but she would not have bet on it for a fact, which was a rare thing indeed, and he certainly had the advantage in every physical respect. She was especially concerned with the long reach of his almost ape-like arms. Even his fingers were surprisingly long, and clearly no less powerful for it. In a handful of seconds, she drew the only conclusion that mattered: The odds of besting him fairly, even in a single pass, were virtually non-existent.

So, she sprang into the air. Zed’s right fist shot back, ready to meet her as she came hurtling at him. Instead, she flipped backward, and her boot heel smashed a fluorescent light fixture. There was a bright flash at the level of his eyes, and he lurched back with a cry. Still, he raised his arms in a perfect attack stance, but Shadow came low, slashing for his hip with a blade that had sprouted from the toe of her left boot. The Flea pointed and shouted, heedless of a smack from the Tick. Zed was already moving back, and it looked like he might be fast enough. Princip lunged forward. But before he could shout the order for Zed to stop the fight as he wrenched the cell door off its hinges, Zotgjakt put his fist straight through the wall and jerked Shadow back.

The finbacks were still shouting as they burst into the training room. “Of course I knew of the concealed blade,” Zed said. He went straight to a chassis no one else would have dreamed of touching. “It was obvious from her insteps that one boot was different from the other, and I easily spotted signs of the modification.” He began to put on the torso armature, with help from Zotgjakt.
“Nevertheless, you were caught unprepared,” Princip said. “We know better than anyone, leg wounds are serious business. You could have been crippled, even killed.”

“Precisely!” Zed said, jabbing his prosthesis at the ceiling. He pulled an armored gauntlet over the lattice-like armature of the fingers, while Zotgjakt made the last tweaks to the primary shoulder servo. “I would want nothing less from my new command!” With that, he turned and delivered a backhanded slap that sent Zotgjakt unresisting to the floor.

Two-year-old exotrooper?

Posted in Disabilities, Exoskeletons with tags , , , , on August 18, 2012 by David N. Brown


Toddler with an exoskeleton?


I’d run away!

In seriousness, assistive technology for the (physically) disabled is the area to watch for exoskeleton development.  The field lends itself not only to experimentation, but to actual “field” use of even a “one-off” creation.  This particular specimen is very primitive, looking like nothing so much as a “Technic” Lego set (a video on the story actually mentions that it’s made out of the same plastic as Legos!), but a few motors are all it needs to qualify as a powered exoskeleton. On the whole, it’s nice to see the civilian sector outpacing military development.

Photo courtesy Daily Mail

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona