ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2) (25 page)

Alfa platoon assembled in the briefing room one week later.

A week of waiting, for most of us. A week of recuperating, for others.

An air of excitement suffused our ranks. We were finally going to
do
something.

Namely, our jobs.

I flexed my replaced hand. I’d been practicing almost all day, every day, with the stun pen. I could move most of the arm through the expected range of motions, though mobility wasn’t entirely restored to all my fingers yet. I could bend my trigger finger precisely, however, and that’s all I really needed to do to be operational.

The entry door irised open and Lieutenant Commander Braggs marched inside. All chatter faded away. As usual, I felt instantly intimidated by his sheer towering size. His hard features seemed even harder today, if that was possible, and I saw deep lines marking out the angular planes of his face.

“Alfa platoon,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs said. “Lieutenant Colonel Trowell sends his regards for the help you gave during Operation Crimson Pipeline. Especially those of you who bought time for the drop ships.” He gazed in turn at Dyson, Bender, and me. “News from above has trickled to my ears. There’s the possibility a few of you may be getting medals, and I hope—”

“You can take the medals and shove ’em up the Brass’s ass,” Bender said. “I don’t need to be no political pawn. Sir.”

The Lieutenant Commander grinned politely. “Interrupt me again, Bender. Please.”

Bender shifted uncomfortably.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs continued. “I know very well how much you all love your medals. I’ll be sure to relay your opinion, Bender, up the chain of command. Word for word.”

Bender gulped audibly. I was glad I’d kept my mouth shut, though I felt the same way about medals as Bender.

“Anyway,” Braggs continued, “the gesture from Command is appreciated, from my standpoint. The number of medals awarded a platoon can only increase its prestige, regardless of whether the actual platoon members decide to wear them or not. Though to be brutally honest, prestige isn’t going to matter all that much now. We’re at war, people, against an alien race none of us understands, facing technology far superior to our own. And so far, we’re losing.

“But I didn’t call you here to debate the merits of medals in times of war, or to bemoan our technological inferiority. I have a new direct action deployment for you. A mission that could lead to some critical intel.

“During Operation Crimson Pipeline, a small convoy of SKs from
the battalion actually managed to penetrate the enemy line and reach the city. At least, that’s the official story. We believe the SKs landed another convoy on the far side of Shangde City, unbeknownst to the allies, but
that’s beside the point. In any case, this second group didn’t do much better than the first, but they did reach the city proper. After a pitched battle, they fled, but not before making an interesting discovery.

“Distributed throughout the city, among the resin structures erected by the Burrowers and Workers, are robots and ATLAS mechs on patrol, kindly donated by the previous inhabitants. I’m sure some of our own units are joining them at this very moment. But there are also possessed Artificials, and a certain Artificial in particular.”

A retinal vid feed filled my vision, taken from the point of view of one of the SK soldiers. I saw a humanoid figure in the distance, moving amid a sea of crabs. Gunfire came in from the left. The distant figure glanced toward the source of the gunfire, and the crabs immediately surged that way, followed by the host slug.

The vid zoomed in. The figure was an Artificial, its face the spitting image of the SK President Guoping Qiu, the so-called “Paramount Leader.” Droplets of glowing purple condensation covered the base of its neck, above the camos. It was one of the more common models of Artificials manufactured by the SKs, because the actual Paramount Leader liked to make it easier for the population to adulate him. I think he’d issued an actual decree to the robot manufacturers stating that half the models sold to the distributers had to have his face on them.

The vid feed cut away.

“That Artificial is your High-Value Target,” the Lieutenant Commander said. “The intelligence boys at the Special Collection Service believe if we secure this Artificial, we can use it to communicate with the possessing Phant.”

“Once we retrieve the High-Value, what’s to stop the Phant from escaping?” Trace said. “I assume we’ll be given some sort of containment device?”

“You will indeed.” A three-dimensional, box-like schematic overlaid my vision. “Our SK allies have been in contact with the alien race for a little longer than we have, and they’ve come up with a glass cage equipped with an electromagnetic core specifically designed to bottle up Phants. They’ve used it to capture two of the entities so far. The design can be expanded to encompass larger subjects, specifically Artificials possessed by Phants.”

“Wait a second,” Ghost said. “If the SKs have captured Phants already, why not simply put an Artificial inside one of these existing holding cells, let the Phant possess it, and then interrogate the bastard?”

“The SKs tried that. Once possessed, the Artificial didn’t say a word. But the SKs have only captured blue Phants so far. You may have noticed in the vid, the High-Value Target is possessed by a purple one. The faster, quicker variety, which are far rarer.”

“Quicker and rarer doesn’t mean more intelligent,” Lui said. “What makes the Special Collection Service so certain a purple one will be more talkative than a blue one?”

The vid feed of the city returned, this time from another point of view. I thought it was from an HS3 drone.

The Artificial followed three meters behind an injured SK soldier. The man was on the ground, pulling himself forward with his arms alone, struggling to get away.

Crabs surrounded the two of them, but kept their distance.

The Artificial said in Korean-Chinese, “Do not fear, you are safe now. Join us.” He extended a hand as the SK soldier looked back. “Join us.”

The soldier glanced from side to side; his gaze was met by crabs wherever he looked. The SK reached toward his belt, pulled the pin on a grenade, and blew himself up.

The unharmed Artificial turned aside, shaking its head in disgust, and the crabs dispersed.

The vid feed terminated.

“Alfa platoon won’t be alone on this mission,” the Lieutenant Commander said. I thought he was going to reveal that Bravo platoon would be joining us, but instead he said, “You’ll be teaming up with an SK platoon—”

The groans cut him off.

He looked around incredulously. “Am I talking to a group of highly trained spec-op assets? Or a roomful of children? Show some discipline here.”

“The SKs will shoot us in the back!” Manic said. “Look what they did on the last operation: leaving us behind as bait while they dispatched a second convoy to the city.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Braggs said, “they left their own boys behind as bait too, fighting at our side down there.” He pressed his lips together. “Access to the containment blueprint is contingent upon an SK presence. We need that blueprint. So put aside all feelings of hatred and mistrust, because the orders are clear. If you’re done whining . . .”

He ran his gaze across the room. “Your two platoons will be dropping separately. Once in position, you will provide bounding overwatch of one another. You’ll be going in light. No ATLAS mechs. No robot support troops. You’ll only get HS3s, and a very few at that. For one thing, we don’t want to make too great a show of force and scare the Artificial into hiding. For another, we don’t want to risk donating any more of our expensive technology to the enemy than we have to. Also, by sending in only one SK and one UC platoon, the theory is we’ll attract less attention.

“The SKs have agreed that our platoon will bring the High-Value back into orbit. The captured target will be transferred to the
Cinquecento
, a Franco-Italian frigate that survived Operation Crimson Pipeline. The FIs have always been a neutral party, and by giving the High-Value to them, we ensure all sides have equal access.”

“One thing,” Fret said. “How are we supposed to find the Artificial? It’s a big city.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Fret. The High-Value has chosen to inhabit a piece of human technology. And human technology is trackable. That’s why we’re giving you HS3 scouts.”

“What about the EM interference from the Phants and the Skull Ship?”

“Not a concern. Sure, because of the signal degradation you won’t learn the High-Value’s location until the HS3s return from their citywide sweep. But once you have the position, it becomes a quick grab-and-go operation. I’ll delve into more detail on the technical aspects during the prelaunch briefing.”

“This glass containment device we’re stowing the High-Value in,” I said. “I’m assuming it’s heavy? How are we planning to haul it through the city without support robots?”

“Two of you will have to be porters. Facehopper, I think you’ve found a volunteer.” Lieutenant Commander Braggs gave me a devious grin. Me and my big mouth. I’d gone against one of my old tenets from training: never attract instructor attention. And Braggs was the closest thing to an instructor as I could get out here in the real world. “It’ll be almost like ATLAS PT back in training, except now you’ll get to port your load with a strength-enhanced jumpsuit and a jetpack.”

He always makes it sound so easy
, Trace transmitted subvocally, thanks to our temporarily reactivated Implants. He used the Platoon line, which excluded Braggs.

I’m just waiting for the kicker
, Lui sent.
It’s coming. I can feel it.

“After you acquire the target,” Lieutenant Command Braggs said, “you will return to the secure extract location on the northeast edge of the city.”

Facehopper frowned. “By the time we capture the target, things could be fairly hot down there. Couldn’t we move the extract location closer to the High-Value Target once we make a positive ID? Otherwise we’ll have to fight our way tooth and nail back across the city.”

And here we have the kicker!
Lui sent.

Braggs shook his head. “We can’t risk deploying a shuttle any closer. Too easy to get shot down by the city’s automated defenses or by possessed ATLAS mechs. Once you have the target, you’ll have to make a return trip across the city to the extract location. As for fighting your way out, after you have the target in your possession, you’ll have full authorization to call in air strikes. Two MQ-91 Raptors will be standing by in the vicinity.”

“Assuming the Raptors themselves don’t get shot down,” Lui said. “And that our commos”—communications officers—“can break through the EM interference to relay proper air-strike coordinates.”

The Lieutenant Commander nodded gravely. “No one ever said it was going to be easy.”

At least he finally admits it
, Lui sent.
A simple grab-and-go operation, huh?

Quit whining
, Facehopper transmitted.
You didn’t sign up for easy. None of us did.

Damn straight
, Skullcracker sent.

“Well if there are no more questions, rest up,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs said. “The prelaunch briefing is at 1100. The drop is at 1200. Dismissed.”

It was nice knowing you, people
, Fret sent.

Positivity, mate
, Facehopper transmitted.
Positivity.

Fret shook his head.
You’re far too upbeat for a MOTH, Facehopper.
Pessimism saves lives. As a soldier, you can never have too much of it. Positivity, on the other hand, even in small doses, is lethal. Especially to spec-op units.

Facehopper grinned.
At least I’ll die with a smile on my face.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Shaw

A
s t
he ATLAS 5 opened fire, I dropped, more out of reflex than anything else, because hitting the ground wouldn’t save me. There was nothing to hide behind: no rocks, no hollows. Maybe if I’d turned back instead, I might’ve made the bend in time. Fan had survived his encounter with the mech, after all. Still, I’d made the mistake of letting my guard down, and traveling too far from the bend.

There was no turning back.

I lay there, and accepted death in that moment.

But it did not come.

The bullets apparently weren’t meant for me.

I opened my eyes. I didn’t dare move my head, but I swiveled my eyes as far up as they would go, and I saw the stream of Gatling fire tear past, above, and to my left, aimed at something behind me.

There was only one other thing that could be behind me . . . a certain loyal companion who wouldn’t stay back when I told him to.

Queequeg!

The Gatling fire ceased.

Dreading what I would find, I glanced over my shoulder.

To my relief, Queequeg was not there.

I stood up cautiously, and backed away from the ATLAS 5, my hands raised in a gesture of surrender, though whether or not the mech would interpret the action as such was questionable. I felt, maybe unjustifiably, that any attempt to withdraw would attract more Gatling fire.

But I had to check on Queequeg.

Step by slow step I retreated. I kept my rifle aimed skyward, and considered tossing it away entirely, all too aware it was an SK model. In the end, I kept it, because I still had to deal with Fan out there.

After what seemed an eternity, I slipped past the bend into the outer section of the defile, only to find Queequeg long gone.

“Queequeg!” I turned the audio amplification on my external speakers up to full. “Queequeg!”

The animal peered apprehensively past the far edge of the defile. I felt relieved that he hadn’t run off. But of course Queequeg wouldn’t. The bonds of loyalty between us were too strong.

I glanced at the bend behind me, and when I was satisfied that the ATLAS 5 wasn’t going to pursue, I jogged toward Queequeg. I had to check on him and make sure he wasn’t injured.

“Queequeg! Come!” I beckoned as I ran, but he didn’t move. “Queequeg. It’s okay. Come!”

Queequeg reluctantly approached. His ears and tail were pointed straight up, a sign he was yet on high alert.

As I neared, his gait switched to a lope, then an all-out sprint.

He leaped into my arms, bowling me over.

I landed flat on my back. If I hadn’t been wearing a jumpsuit, his weight would’ve crushed me. I found myself staring into this gaping maw as Queequeg licked my face mask, leaving steaming lines of saliva on the glass.

“Queequeg. Good to see you too, boy.” With some effort, I slid him off me. “Are you hurt?”

I performed a thorough check, but he seemed fine. No green, misting wounds. He must have run away the instant those Gatlings turned on him.

I petted him between the shoulders. “Queequeg. You scared me.”

He lowed in response.

“I take it things did not go well in there?” Fan walked down the defile toward us from the entrance.

“I’m alive,” I said. “So things went extremely well. I don’t think the ATLAS is possessed.”

“Are you so sure? Maybe it wishes to talk with you.”

“Maybe. Though it didn’t really respond too well to Queequeg.”

Fan scoffed, grimacing at the animal. “That is entirely understandable.”

Queequeg bared his long, sharp canines in a rictus and growled at him.

“That’s right, Queequeg,” I said. “He’s an asshole.”

Fan seemed taken aback. “What did I ever do to you other than help?”

I steered the rifle barrel toward him. “Whether you end up helping or hindering when all is said and done is the question, isn’t it?”

He eyed the weapon uneasily. “When are you going to trust me?”

“Trust an SK? The only SK I’d trust is a little girl or boy. Too young for the indoctrinations to have taken full effect. I’ve read some of the propaganda your Paramount Leader feeds the population. How the UC is a land of homeless people, jobless because of the robot revolution. How our nations are always cold and covered in meters of snow. How we line up to receive food stamps, and riot when it comes time to fetch the actual food. Oh, and my favorite, how some of us are reduced to catching songbirds from the trees and eating them.
Yummy
!
”

“Not all of us believe the propaganda, you know,” Fan said. “You would be surprised at how many people use the Undernet, and the Tor2 anonymity network, to bypass the state-owned websites and media. Sure, we have to be careful what we say in public, but we know the truth. And I told you, I grew up in the UC. I know from personal experience it is not all bad.”

“Sure, but you’ve been hearing how bad we are your entire adult life. Some of that ill will has got to stick.”

He sighed.

“Look,” I said. “I’ll trust you when you’ve earned that trust.”

“I led you to the ATLAS mech, did I not?”

“You did,” I said. “But whether or not you guided me here because you hoped the mech would kill me remains to be seen.”

Fan threw up his arms. “So this is how it is going to be. Go to your ATLAS mech, then. I am but an evil, indoctrinated SK.”

I gave him a long, hard look, then I turned toward Queequeg. “Guard him, boy. Stay.”

I backed away. Queequeg seemed happy to remain behind this time. Queequeg, who had faced down packs of hybears and gatherings of beasts at my side, was deathly afraid of the ATLAS mech.

I didn’t blame him.

I was scared of the iron giant too.

I approached the bend once more, and felt the rising trepidation all over again.

I strapped the rifle over my shoulder—probably best not to approach the mech in any manner that could be construed as aggressive.

I stepped into the bend and emerged past the threshold.

The ATLAS 5 remained right where I left it, looming a good thirty meters away.

Its Gatlings were pointed right at me.

I remained motionless for a long moment, waiting for those Gats to open fire. Expecting them to.

Nothing happened.

I took a step forward. Another.

I became more confident, and increased my pace, though my approach was still one of utmost caution. I was ready to hit the deck at a moment’s notice, though doing so wouldn’t save me. I was so close now I wouldn’t even realize the mech had fired, not until my body was pinwheeling backward from the impacts of hundreds of bullets, each one ripping a fist-sized hole into my flesh.

Actually scratch that. I’d never know.

At a fire rate of one hundred rounds per second, I’d be dead instantly.

The aReal built into my faceplate automatically outlined the mech in green, which was supposed to mean “friendly.” The aReal also placed a generic
ATLAS 5
label above it.

“ATLAS, stand down,” I said, shakily.

Nothing.

The metallic monster wouldn’t be provisioned to respond to my vocal pattern, but perhaps I could reason with the AI within. In emergency situations, all robot support troops, including mechs, were programmed to protect UC Navy personnel. The trick was to convince the mech that this was an emergency.

I stepped forward three paces.

“ATLAS, stand down.”

Still nothing. I suddenly felt extremely conscious of the hybear fur I’d plastered all over my jumpsuit. What if the fur confused the artificial intelligence of the mech? No. The ATLAS 5 would rely on the radio frequency signal from my embedded ID. All robots did.

I advanced two more steps. I was now five meters from the mech. That iron tower of weapons and servomotors stood roughly three times my height.

“ATLAS, stand down.”

No response.

“ATLAS 5. Friendly is present. I repeat, friendly is present. Stand down.”

Those glowing visual sensors stared emotionlessly at me from the red strip that visored the top of its face.

I began to fear the mech was possessed after all.

“ATLAS 5,” I said again. “Friendly is present. I repeat, friendly—”

I heard the servomotors buzz to life, and those twin Gatlings lowered. The suddenness of the movement actually made me jump.

I closed my eyes in relief, and exhaled.

The mech had stood down.

When I looked at it again, I was ready to take charge.

“ATLAS 5, identify,” I said forcefully.

The ATLAS stood to its full height.

I no longer felt very confident. I was so small and vulnerable, cowering there beneath the mech. If there was one thing that was intimidating, it was three tonnes of metal gazing down on you while you were dressed in nothing but a furry jumpsuit.

The ATLAS didn’t respond.

“ATLAS 5, identify?” My voice sounded soft, squeaky to my ears.

Yup, I’d definitely lost all my confidence.

The mighty mech finally deigned to answer.

“ATLAS Generation 5,” a deep, authoritative, almost rude voice blared down from above.

I winced, turning my internal speaker volume way down. It sounded like I was standing in front of a megaphone.

“Serial number 5010452,” the ATLAS continued. “Mac address 01:53:65:53:21:cf. Callsign, Battlehawk.”

Okay. Now we were getting somewhere.

“Battlehawk, open,” I said.

The ATLAS remained motionless. “You are not provisioned for that command.”

Well, it was worth a try.

“Battlehawk, follow tight,” I said.

“You are not provisioned for that command.”

Hmm. This wasn’t going to work.

“Battlehawk,” I said, in a tone reserved for a misbehaving child. “Repeat to me the first order of the Machine Constitution.”

“The preservation of civilian human life in all its forms overrides every other directive, except mission critical,” the mech intoned.

Ah yes, I had forgotten the military modification. For normal robots, the first order of the Machine Constitution was
the preservation of human life in all its forms overrides all other directives.

The inclusion of the word “civilian” was a subtle distinction, but since the AI within the mech would follow the Constitution to the letter, and I wasn’t a civilian, the ATLAS wouldn’t help me if I pursued that angle.

However, there was another military modification I touched upon earlier, one I might be able to use. “You are programmed to protect all UC Navy personnel in emergency situations, are you not?”

“That is correct,” Battlehawk answered in its deep voice.

“What if I told you that this was an emergency situation? And that to protect me, you must obey my every command?”

“Demonstrate proof of emergency,” Battlehawk said.

“Battlehawk, my oxygen canisters are running low. I have maybe an hour left in the bailout canister. Do you confirm?”

The mech remained motionless. After a moment: “I confirm.”

“Battlehawk, open,” I said.

“You are not provisioned for that command.”

I exhaled in exasperation.

“Battlehawk, you just agreed that my oxygen supply was critical. If you do not open, if you do let me interface with your oxygen tanks, I cannot recharge my own supply. I will perish. At your hands. You will have allowed a member of the UC Navy to die.
This is an emergency situation
.”

Battlehawk’s cockpit hatch still did not open. “You are not a qualified ATLAS pilot.”

That’s right, the military AI’s could read
private
profiles from embedded IDs. Battlehawk had seen my ATLAS qualification score, or rather, my lack thereof.

“Battlehawk, listen to me. I’ve spent numerous hours in the simulator. I’ve passed the qualifications. I know my way around an ATLAS 5. I’m an astrogator. If I can handle something as complex as a starship, I think I can handle a little old ATLAS mech.”

Of course a starship or even a shuttle operated very differently from a mech, but I wasn’t going to mention that to Battlehawk’s AI.

The ATLAS 5 swiveled its head slightly, almost like it was cocking its head in amusement. “The simulator does not reproduce the actual ATLAS pilot experience,” Battlehawk said. “The simulator does not move with the pilot.” I’d heard about that—apparently moving around for the first time was very disorienting to most beginning ATLAS pilots. “The simulator uses an approximation of the actual physics found in reality, especially on worlds with differing atmospheric pressure and gravity, such as this one. The simulator assumes optimal interface conditions, which includes a fully operational Implant. Your Implant is currently offline.” I’d heard about that too. Reputedly, operating a mech without an Implant was the same thing as trying to wade across a swamp: slow and difficult. At least at first.

“I understand all of that,” I said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t open your cockpit and let me inside, I’ll die of hypoxia within the hour.”

The mech didn’t move.

I met those glowing yellow eyes defiantly and I didn’t back down. It felt almost like we were locked in some sort of staring match. But of course that couldn’t be possible, not with a machine.