At the center was a guy wearing major’s tabs, tapping on a long-range communicator. Caption: “I love it when a plan comes together.” At that, the artwork was tame compared to pieces that drifted around the nets and were posted on screens here and there, many of them making light of the acronym DRT… “Dead Right There.” Or sometimes, DRTTT: Dead Right There, There and There. Or the DiRTies. Though few people would say that to one in a bar, unless they were very good friends. Masochism was the prime requirement for recon in nasty territory, so DRTs could take a lot of damage. They could also dish out their share and a bit more.

The chat dulled slightly as they start laying out their weapons and stripping them down for cleaning. The team was filthy with mud, sweat, grime and assorted shredded greenery; the weapons were merely dirty from use. Good troops took care of their weapons because their lives depended on them. Between pirates, feral Posleen still romping around from the war that had almost wiped out humanity, and the new Blob menace, these troops expected to see action at any time. The weapons were cared for because they were the difference between life and a cold e-mail to their survivors.

The weapons’ receivers were coated with a chameleon surface that assumed the colors and pattern of anything in the vicinity. As they were laid on the table, they shifted to match, becoming all but invisible. Ferret cursed and said, “The surface stays active damned near forever, even when there isn’t enough juice left to shoot with.” He pressed the surface switch to drop the weapon to neutral gray.

Gorilla, being one of the technical specialists, said, “No, it won’t last forever. It will last a while, though. The surface is small and the environment in here doesn’t take much shifting. But I wouldn’t try to get that long out of an intruder suit. Otoh, it’s easier to detect.”