“Each of the suits is fitted with pockets for chemicals,” she said, “very similar in theme to the thermite A91 we have in our own gear for post-action disposal when that gear cannot be recovered. But these slippery sons of bitches have gone and upped the ante. One of their mad scientists has found a way to get the big bad bang of azidoazide azide, which has fourteen nitrogen atoms, with most of them bonded to one another in successive, unstable nitrogen-nitrogen bonds, which makes them very prone to going bang! That stuff was developed by my old drinking buddy Thomas Klapötke about a dozen years ago. Normally, any attempt to handle the chemical at all causes those bonds to break and turns them into multiple molecules of rapidly expanding nitrogen gas, which creates a hell of a lot of heat and boom. But these cats have found a way to stabilize it, and I wish to hell the entire formula was there because I’d like to steal it, patent it, and sell it. Just contracts with construction companies alone would net me enough money to buy, oh … Mars, and turn it into a luxury resort.” She paused. “I know I keep saying this, but it beats the living hell out of me why Kuga doesn’t go straight and, like I said, patent it and become richer than God.”

“Because he steals the research?” suggested Dr. Coleman, who was a big, burly, and bearded man in contrast to Isaac’s small and slender appearance.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Doc said, “I know. Just grousing. Anyway … this stuff is packed into airtight stabilizing pouches throughout the suit. About seven pounds of it.”

“Why do they need that much?” asked Nikki. “Is the body armor that hard to melt down?”

“No, no, no, no,” said Doc, “it isn’t for after-action disposal. With that modified azidoazide azide, you’d only need three ounces to turn the suit and occupant into smoking fairy dust. Nope. This, ladies and gentlemen, is crime and punishment here. You see, they had a tricky little system of wires synced with telemetry from modified RFID chips. As long as the person wearing the suit maintains a pulse rate above a certain number, all’s fine and dandy. But if that person were to die? Well, then, there’s a triggering mechanism that sends little electric shocks to each and every darn one of those chemical pouches. The resulting explosion from nine pounds of that stuff? Well, if one went off in, say, a high school auditorium, then no one would be graduating that year. You see, they didn’t just stabilize that chemical, they upped its kick.”

She clicked back to the photo of the Fixer in the body armor.