ATLAS 3 (ATLAS Series Book 3)

by Isaac Hooke

  We’d find out soon enough if these EM emitters actually worked. I remembered asking the Chief why the Brass didn’t launch a few empty jumpsuits equipped with the emitters to gauge the enemy response.

  “No point forewarning them,” the Chief had told me. “Since actual human beings in jumpsuits are going to be performing the mission, those same jumpsuit-wearing men get to be the guinea pigs.”

  The first of us, Skullcracker, drifted past the seventy-four-klick delimiter of the Event Horizon.

  The enemy did not fire.

  That didn’t necessarily mean a thing. Perhaps Bogey 2 was simply waiting until all of us were within range before activating its coronal weapon.

  More of the squad passed the Event Horizon.

  Still the enemy didn’t fire.

  Our turn came and Hijak and I crossed without incident.

  The seconds ticked by. Behind me, the last of us traversed the marker.

  Tense moments passed. I felt completely exposed, knowing that all it would take was a single eruption from the alien ship and none of us would escape incineration.

  But the coronal weapon remained inactive.

  Apparently the EM emitters were working.

  “All clear,” Chief Bourbonjack transmitted. “Keep radio chatter to a minimum. Remember, we’re just possessed human hosts going home.”

  We continued floating forward.

  Though the internal environment of my suit was temperature controlled, beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. My breathing sounded loud in my helmet. I concentrated on that breathing and on the present moment, as I had been taught in training. In and out. In. Out. I wouldn’t allow myself to look too far into the future because if I did that, I knew I’d see only hopelessness.

  The black shape of the Skull Ship consumed everything by then. When I looked up, I couldn’t see the gas giant because we were under the far-reaching eaves of the cranial vessel. Only when I gazed straight down did I see something other than Bogey 2, though what I saw was no less unsettling: the surface of the moon was entirely tainted black in this region.

  If the Skull Ship decided to fire its coronal weapon at this close range we probably wouldn’t even know it. One moment we’d be floating through space, eight living and breathing human beings, and the next our carbonized molecules would be dispersed upon the interstellar wind.

  “Initiate deorbital pre-burn and landing sequence,” the Chief sent, using fancy terms usually reserved for starship maneuvers. He used them because we all carried an extra set of small booster rockets strapped to our jetpacks.

  I activated those boosters.

  The process was automated, courtesy of the navigational AIs built into the devices, and as the rockets fired, my trajectory immediately shifted upward. When I reached escape velocity, the thrust reversed and I began to slow.

  Nearing the hull of the Skull Ship, I glanced at the gravity indicator on my aReal: 0.15 G. The thing was so huge it gave off the gravity field of Earth’s moon. I wondered how it influenced the orbit of Tau Ceti II-b around the gas giant.

  Roughly fifty meters away from Bogey 2’s surface, the booster rockets fired a final lateral burst at just the right angle and velocity to set me skimming along the hull. Basically I was in orbit around the Skull Ship.

  The rockets disengaged and jettisoned from my jetpack.

  I used my remaining jumpjets to fine-tune my flight path. I was so close that I could see the dense latticework of black pipes laid one atop the other, ten thousand layers deep, which gave the illusion of a solid hull when viewed from afar. Those pipes were slowly moving, I thought, but it was hard to tell because of the blur my motion induced.

  The surface fell away beneath me as I reached the expansive crater that was our insert site. It was so vast I couldn’t discern the far side from here, but looking down I noticed that the walls tapered, forming a spiraling cone of sorts. It was difficult to make out the bottom of that cone in the ambient light because of the dark coloration of the metal, but I estimated it at eighty to a hundred klicks down.

  The fleet’s telescopic surveillance indicated that this region possessed the thinnest portion of hull, with the bottom of the cone having an estimated thickness of about half a meter to two meters. It was the best place for us to cut our way inside. The next thinnest area was the “eye” region of the cranial-shaped vessel, but since a considerable number of blue and purple Phants were detected beyond that location, it wasn’t considered the best place to insert.

  Chief Bourbonjack and Snakeoil swiveled around while letting momentum carry them forward and flashed their headlamps three times in unison, which was the agreed-upon arrival code. Golden Chariot, the delivery shuttle that was perched unseen in geostationary orbit above the north pole of the moon behind us, would intercept that signal and relay news of our arrival to the fleet, setting in motion the diversionary attack. We had roughly twenty Stanminutes until the fleet began its assault against Bogey 2.

  Twenty minutes. It wasn’t all that much time. By initiating a diversionary attack so soon, the fleet would more than likely induce the bogey into firing its coronal point defense. This weapon was sourced from the hull and erupted from almost every available surface. The crater cone below me served a special purpose during the activation of said weapon, as it appeared to be some kind of excess plasma vent, meaning that when Bogey 2 unleashed its corona, leftover superheated gases would eject there. Kind of like the kickback from a ten gauge but on a more massive scale.

  Basically we were flying into the heart of a huge blast furnace, which just so happened to be turned off right now. Though in twenty minutes, thanks to the fleet, that furnace would probably switch on at full intensity.

  I know that more than a few of us questioned the wisdom of launching a diversion against the ship in the first place, given the dangers to our squad, but Brass felt a distraction was needed in order to ensure we encountered the least resistance possible aboard. Apparently the idea was to pretend that we had stolen something of value from the fleet: the nuclear warhead, or rather, classified tech. The fleet would send out comm chatter to that effect, knowing that the enemy would intercept it, implying that eight alien hosts had gotten away with the tech. The chatter would further imply that the human fleet wanted to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. By attacking so soon, the fleet lent credence to that story, bolstering the impression that we were alien hosts.

  Still, it seemed like an unnecessary risk to me. Leave it to the trigger-happy commanders back in Brass to come up with a strategy like that. They wanted to be a part of Operation Potentate, the campaign that took down the enemy, at all costs, and therefore looked for any excuse to engage. But what if by doing so they put half of their key spec-ops soldiers in grave danger?

  In the simulations, we’d always made it down the vent and aboard the ship in just under ten minutes. But simulations weren’t reality, unfortunately.

  Well, I was just a grunt and I didn’t have any say in the matter. I’d do my job the best I could and just hope the Brass didn’t royally screw us.

  The squad members began diving. Hijak and I let our autopilots adjust our trajectories, slowing us down and steering us into the downward spiral necessary to traverse the crater cone. Around me, the black walls slowly tightened, digging into the core of the ship like a bore created by some giant drill. The pipes composing the hull still seemed to be moving, but I wasn’t entirely sure because of my own motion.

  Tall, pointed spikes of metal jutted perpendicularly from the ever-tightening walls, cutting across our path at angles. I was reminded of giant thorns. The spikes became denser the farther down we traveled, forcing our autopilots to continuously update the flight path, weaving us to and fro as the overall walls tightened. I felt the subtle G forces constantly and my grip on the payload was tested more than once. As were my nerves. Sometimes the autopilot seemed like it was about to steer
us headfirst into one of those thick metal spikes.

  We abruptly broke free of the thorny layer. The hull waited unmarred below, devoid of the metallic barbs. I felt like a man emerging from a briar patch.

  I checked the time since we signaled Golden Chariot: ten minutes. Already we had surpassed our simulated boarding time.

  Hijak and I touched down not far from the rest of the squad, landing roughly in the center of the fifteen-hundred-meter-diameter region that marked the bottom of the crater cone. The nuclear payload we gripped felt moderately heavy in the gravity. Conversely, I hardly felt the hefty medbag I had strapped on above my jetpack.

  Below, the hull was indeed moving. The many pipes forming the surface slowly swayed and undulated, as if alive. I had to shift my stance from time to time to avoid getting my feet pinched between two pipes. It felt like I stood at the junction between two rail routes, with the switch constantly activating to move the rails back and forth. Because of this, Hijak and I didn’t dare lower the payload.

  I glanced at him. Like me, he occasionally shifted his position to avoid trapping a boot between the pipes. The digital coloration of his jumpsuit had already changed to match the lighter black of the hull, replete with crisscrossing lines to represent the pipes.

  We carefully picked our way toward the others, traveling across the shifting surface with the payload. It felt similar to moonwalk portage, except over terrain that changed with every step.

  “This wasn’t in the simulations,” Bender sent. “Any explanation why the damn hull is moving?”

  Snakeoil shook his head inside his helmet. “No.”

  “Maybe it’s alive?” Lui transmitted.

  “I don’t care either way,” the Chief sent. “Snakeoil, can we breach this, or do we have to signal the abort?”

  Snakeoil extended a gloved hand and moved it from side to side. “I’m reading allotropic forms of carbon, iron, and magnesium, with traces of geronium-275 and other elements mixed in. I don’t think it’s alive, but we can breach it. Just not here.”

  “What do you mean?” Chief Bourbonjack sent.

  “Fleet got the landing site wrong,” Snakeoil answered. “Hull’s too thick here. It would take me forty minutes to cut through. But according to my readings, the hull is much thinner up ahead.”

  “How far?” the Chief sent.

  “About ten or eleven minutes away.”

  “We have only nine minutes until Fleet begins its diversionary attack,” the Chief transmitted.

  “Then we’ll get there in five!” Snakeoil said over the comm, taking off at a running hop.

  “Damn it,” the Chief sent. “Everyone, after Snakeoil!”

  The others were able to hop forward in much the same manner as on Earth’s moon, using their jetpacks to further increase their speed. But because of the payload, Hijak and I advanced far slower, using more jetpack fuel to cover less distance with each hop.

  The lattice of pipes that composed the metal surface below continued to undulate as we advanced. Once, between hops, my boot got wedged between two pipes as I landed and I tripped. I recovered, pulling the payload back up while Hijak waited patiently beside me. Ahead, other squad members stumbled occasionally as well, which made me feel a little better.

  No enemies showed up to repel our advance. That was good, because it told me that the fleet chatter had worked, and the EM emitters in our jumpsuits were doing their jobs. Still, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that we were walking into some trap.

  “This is taking too long, Snakeoil,” the Chief transmitted. “We just passed the twenty minute mark. Fleet is going to begin the diversionary attack any time now. We need to start making the hole now.”

  “Still too thick here,” Snakeoil returned. “Just a little farther, Chief.”

  “How long?” the Chief sent.

  “Maybe another three minutes.”

  “Well move then!” Chief Bourbonjack barked. “Double time!”

  It was too late to jet back up and send the abort. I knew that, as did everyone else, I’m sure. All we could do was move forward and hope we found a spot where we could cut inside, and fast.

  The rest of the squad started to use more jet fuel between hops, increasing the distance covered with each leap. Hijak and I did likewise, draining our precious fuel at an alarming rate. It felt like we were going to be incinerated by superheated plasma at any second.

  Finally Snakeoil came to a halt.

  “Here,” he announced. “The hull is half a meter thick. It’s perfect.”

  “Then open up a hole damn it!” The Chief glanced nervously at the stars above, as if expecting some visual sign regarding our impending vaporization.

  Hijak and I completed our final hop, joining the others. Though our arms were fairly exhausted despite the strength-enhancement provided by our suits, we didn’t dare lower the payload, not with those undulating pipes below us. It wouldn’t do to make it this far only to have the payload snagged by the hull.

  Snakeoil handed Lui his heavy gun and then hastily slid the rucksack from his shoulders. He paused, shooting the Chief an alarmed glance. “I’m reading a spike in Observer Mind activity.”

  The Chief nodded behind his faceplate. “So Fleet has finally begun its diversionary attack. We don’t have much time. Hurry up please, Snakeoil.” I could tell he was expending a lot of effort to keep his voice calm.

  Snakeoil hastily retrieved the plasma cutter from his rucksack.

  The shifting pipes around us started to glow red slightly, reminding me of blood. No matter where I looked, from directly below me to the topmost edges of the cone, all I saw was the ominous crimson glow.

  “Chief!” Hijak sent, obviously referring to the hull.

  “Snakeoil,” the Chief returned. “Get us that hole.”

  And then Skullcracker screamed.

  The shrill, ear-splitting yell over the comm was unrecognizable, but I knew it belonged to Skullcracker because of the speaker icon flashing next to his name on my HUD.

  Skullcracker was not the kind of man you’d ever expect to scream, which made his howling all the more disturbing. His vitals were green, meaning his suit was still pressurized, but his heart rate had spiked.

  Because of the way our helmets limited the periphery of our vision, Hijak and I had to turn the payload in order to see him.

  The hull had swallowed Skullcracker’s left leg assembly up to the top of his boot. Three glowing metal pipes were coiled below his knee, squeezing, trying to yank him under. He had lodged his other boot against the surface and laid right back, pressing his gloves down against the surrounding pipes in an attempt to counter the pull.

  Chief Bourbonjack was already rushing to his side.

  “The hull . . .” Skullcracker sent over the comm. He was panting loudly, obviously from the pain, and the effort of resisting those pipes. “It just snatched me . . .”

  The Chief grabbed him by one shoulder, while Manic and Bender clasped him on the other side. They heaved but Skullcracker didn’t budge. The pipes held him fast.

  Around us, the surface continued to increase in luminosity. Each and every pipe was a bright, blood red, the same color as bare fingers held over a flashlight. I could feel the heat rising in my jumpsuit.

  The coronal weapon was about to fire.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tahoe

  Still employing the viewpoint of the scout, Bicentennial Man, I stared at the glowing puddles that lurked beneath the crystalline structures of the cavern ahead.

  The liquid entities were blue.

  Slower Phants.

  And so far the aliens had made no attempt to approach Bicentennial Man, nor initiated any movements at all for that matter. It was almost like they were at rest, or hibernating.

  There were empty spaces between those scattered puddles. It would be a tight fit, bu
t our ATLAS 5s could cross, if need be.

  Assuming the Phants didn’t move.

  “Should we turn back, try the other fork?” Fret said over the comm.

  Facehopper hesitated. Probably calculating the distance to the previous fork. Finally he made up his mind. “The other branch leads away from the Observer Mind, so I can’t justify going back. Besides, if we took that path, who’s to say we wouldn’t find ourselves in a tunnel filled with even more Phants? Eventually we’ll have to bite the bullet and trust the EM emitters installed in our jumpsuits. Now is as good a time as any.”

  “So we’re going forward?” Fret transmitted. I could hear the apprehension in his voice.

  “We’re going forward.”

  As usual, TJ plotted the course.

  First we let the Centurion, Bicentennial Man, proceed alone toward the center of the cavern; when none of the Phants moved, we decided the EM emitter installed in the robot did what it was supposed to. Still, a part of me wondered if this was some ruse to get us all inside before the enemy attacked.

  Bomb moved his ATLAS 5 into the cavern next, followed by Trace, then Mauler.

  My turn came. Staying three meters behind Mauler, I marched my mech, Wolfhound, forward. I constantly glanced to the left and right, watching for reactions from the Phants, but the things remained inert.

  And so we walked into that nest of Phants, one by one. We moved forward slowly, carefully, sticking to the path overlaid onto our HUDs by TJ.

  “Bros!” Bomb sent from up ahead. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” Facehopper returned.

  “I accidentally stepped near a Phant, and it actually moved away from me!”

  As if to demonstrate, Bomb purposely led his ATLAS 5 from the path up ahead and sure enough one of the Phants, which happened to be within a pace of his mech, flowed aside.

  Curious, I, too, deviated from the pre-plotted course, taking a hesitant step toward the glowing puddle beside me. The blue Phant trickled away, sliding over to the crystalline wall.