“Feels good,” the figure said, his voice electronically distorted. In rapid succession, he elevated the cannon straight up into the air, side to side, and around in all directions. The movements were smooth, mechanical, effortless, as if the one-thousand-pound cannon were little more than a wooden stick. He set the big gun down on the floor, then unfastened some latches, removed his helmet, and handed it to a technician standing nearby to help him. “I feel like a damned clown miming on the street, but it works pretty well.”

Patrick looked at Hal Briggs but said nothing. Hal was wearing the new and improved Tin Man battle armor, and he looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying it.

The first version of the electronic armor was designed to protect the wearer from bullets or bombs—fast-moving blunt trauma or shock—but did nothing to enhance strength. The new suit added a fibersteel exoskeleton structure with microhydraulically operated joints at the shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, and ankles, with stress supports on the hands, fingers, and feet. The suit’s onboard computers read and analyzed all of the body’s normal muscle movements and amplified them through the exoskeleton, giving the wearer unbelievable physical strength, speed, and enhanced agility.

“Now, let’s see if it fits in its convenient carrying case.” Hal entered a code into a small panel on his left gauntlet, which powered down the exoskeleton and released the bindings. The exoskeleton remained standing like some sort of metal sculpture or futuristic scarecrow. He entered another code into a small control panel inside the frame on the spine, and the exoskeleton started to fold itself. In less than thirty seconds, it had collapsed down to the size and weight of a small suitcase. Hal placed the folded exoskeleton into a padded duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder—because of its composite construction, it was light and easy to carry, although the fibersteel components were many times stronger than steel. “Very cool. Every kid should have one.” Hal stepped over to Patrick, the duffel bag slung on his back, and clasped his longtime friend on the shoulder. “You okay, Muck?” he asked.

Patrick shrugged. “It just feels like one of those days when you know something’s not going to go right.”

“Well, Wendy did a good job getting this thing tuned up,” Hal said, motioning to the bag on his shoulder. “It’s very cool. I want to start putting it through its paces right away, before Masters decides to invest production money on something else.”