ATLAS 3 (ATLAS Series Book 3)

by Isaac Hooke

  Finally the host slug showed itself, heaving forth from the darkness behind the crabs. It looked like a giant version of its mollusk namesake, minus the shell—this hulking, semigelatinous, oval-shaped mass with long feeler antennae in front and two smaller mandibles where a mouth should be. Oozing slime, hundreds of umbilicals ran out from its skin, connecting its body to the crabs. As expected, the slug was of the gargantuan variety, coming in at the height and breadth of a stadium, so huge that it nearly touched the cavern’s ceiling and far walls. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see much more than the front of the thing, but given the proportions of previous slugs I’d encountered, this one would have to be the length of several football fields. Muscles rippling beneath its black corrugated skin, the thing ponderously wormed forward, breaking away charred eggs from the roof as it approached.

  Though I was inside an ATLAS mech, a deep-rooted fear formed in the heart of my being in that nearly forgotten place where I’d stowed the ghosts, boogeymen, and other monsters of childhood. My hands trembled involuntarily as I turned my weapons on the thing, and I experienced a somewhat nauseating revulsion, the same sort of feeling I got when looking at maggots infesting the corpse of a dead bird, except magnified tenfold. This creature was an abomination, its main purpose to terraform the moon into geronium, rendering it uninhabitable to all life in the process.

  I opened fire. Beside me, the others trained their Gats in turn on the creature, but the giant slug proved impervious to our threads of superheated, one-hundred-round-per-second bullets.

  I remembered how much effort it had taken to kill one of these varieties during Operation Crimson Pipeline. With multiple Raptor and gunship air strikes, endless shelling from Equestrians and Abrams, and countless rocket and grenade attacks from the over five hundred infantry and support troops, we’d finally taken it down.

  Unfortunately, we had only eight ATLAS 5s today.

  “Still think we can take it?” Fret sent sarcastically.

  If the spirits actually existed, we could have really used their help right then.

  “Rockets!” Facehopper sent.

  I switched to serpent rockets and launched several toward the slug, as did my squad mates.

  The cave thundered and explosions filled the air, but as far as I could tell we didn’t damage the slug whatsoever. The giant slithered straight through the impacts.

  We had been concentrating fire on the slug, which was a mistake, because doing so allowed the remaining crabs to close with our ranks. I was near the front of the arrowhead formation and I had to physically bash a crab aside.

  “Prepare to fall back!” Facehopper said over the comm. “Mauler, Trace, grab the payloads. Everyone else switch to Gatlings! Keep those crabs at bay!”

  As the ATLAS 5s of Mauler and Trace broke formation, I swiveled Gats back into my hands and severed the trunk-sized cords of the crabs rushing me. They seemed to come in constantly: shoot down one and another was always there to take its place. Sometimes a crab’s momentum carried it forward even after I’d severed its cord and I’d have to swing a forearm to bat it aside.

  Through it all the gargantuan form of the superslug continued to approach, bearing down on us like some giant battering ram.

  Spirits save us . . .

  “Payload one secured!” Mauler transmitted.

  “Payload two secure!” Trace sent immediately after.

  “Fall back!” Facehopper ordered.

  We retreated before the crab onslaught. Wading through the charred larvae, I used strategic bursts against the enemy behind me, mindful of my ever-decreasing ammo levels.

  In moments we joined up with the Centurion at our rear, Lead Foot, and fell back into the neighboring tunnel. We kept our two porters, Mauler and Trace, secure in the middle of our formation.

  I’d harbored a slim hope that the superslug wouldn’t be able to fit the bordering tunnel, but looking over my shoulder I watched as the determined creature squeezed inside. It actually moved faster in this passage than in the wider cavern, with a speed I didn’t think something that large would be capable of.

  The explanation for its velocity dawned on me as I fled.

  Similar to snakes, these slugs had transversal muscles running up and down their bodies. Since this tunnel was more of a snug fit, rock pressed into the creature on all sides, and, as such, the slug could shove off from the surrounding surfaces with every muscle in its body at the same time. So of course it could move faster than before.

  There was no more pussyfooting around. We fled for our lives, pushing our mechs to their top speeds.

  Ghost and I brought up the rear. At the periphery of my vision, I saw Ghost trip.

  I turned back for him.

  “Come on!” I hauled him to his feet.

  Ahead of us other squad members launched serpents, trying to slow the superslug, but our colossal pursuer continued its advance unabated, herding us back toward the abyss.

  The thing closed to within eight meters of my mech.

  I switched to incendiary throwers, twisted my torso, and unleashed a spray of jellied gasoline at the slug as I sprinted. Ghost did the same beside me.

  The flames plastered the behemoth’s front side. The heat made no difference: the superslug continued steadily forward, rapidly gaining on us.

  The abyss was still about half a klick ahead.

  We weren’t going to make it.

  “Jetpacks!” Facehopper shouted as the slug overcame us.

  I jetted upward, as did Ghost beside me.

  The slug collided with me and I hurled my fists into its flesh, jabbing the tips of my incendiary throwers into the skin like swords, securing Wolfhound in place so that my mech wouldn’t slide down and be crushed by the slug’s incalculable tonnage.

  Around me, the jetting ATLAS 5s of my brothers did likewise, lodging the tips of their Gats or other weapons into the slug’s flesh at random intervals along its front side. Even Mauler and Trace managed to secure themselves with one arm while still gripping the nuclear warheads in their free hands.

  Below me, flames from my earlier incendiary attack burned from the slug’s skin. I felt a slight rise in temperature within my cockpit.

  TJ had neglected to signal Lead Foot and Bicentennial Man; the dots representing the combat robots winked out as the superslug crushed them.

  “So what next, boss?” Bomb sent.

  “We tag along for the ride,” Facehopper answered.

  “You know where this ride ends, don’t you?” I said. “That’s right, the abyss.”

  We never did hear back from the ATLAS Support System drone we’d sent down to explore its depths, which could have meant any number of things. None of them good.

  Facehopper didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded grim. “Get ready to use your jetpacks again, mates. When the slug stops in front of the abyss, do your best to jet away. Make for the ledge if you can and try to get back to the other tunnel that borders the drop.”

  “You’re assuming, of course, that the slug will actually stop . . .” Trace sent. “What if it decides to plunge right on into the abyss instead?”

  “Then we’ll have to use a bit more jumpjet fuel,” Facehopper replied, somewhat deadpan.

  Up ahead I saw the tunnel fall away into darkness. We had reached the abyss.

  Now was the moment of truth. Would the slug stop or would it continue on over the ledge?

  The slug didn’t stop.

  “Jet upward now!” Facehopper sent. “Don’t let it drag you down! Try to make the ledge!”

  I pushed away from the slug as it burst through the opening, and I thrust my ATLAS 5 upward with my jetpack. The shaft that contained the abyss was much bigger than the superslug, so I and the others had ample room to maneuver around the creature. However, since the alien was the diameter of a football field and the le
ngth of several of them, I still had some distance to traverse. I kept an eye on my jumpjet fuel level, which was dangerously low.

  “Try to make the ledge!” Facehopper repeated.

  I thrust my mech toward the thin shelf that ran along the wall beside the tunnel opening.

  Below me, the slug emerged entirely from the passage and began the long plummet down the shaft.

  There were quite a few crabs attached to the rear of the slug, crabs we hadn’t been able to attack before because we had no access to them. These crabs swung up and outward in an arc as they were drawn along by the momentum of the host.

  Toward us.

  I was forced to jet backward, away from the tunnel and the ledge, to avoid hitting the crabs or getting tangled up in their cords.

  Mauler, holding one of the warheads, wasn’t so lucky; a crab struck his payload and latched on, pulling him down.

  I immediately cut the fuel supply to my jetpack and plunged after him. I fired my Gatling at the crab, severing its cord and killing it.

  Mauler shoved the crab carcass away and activated his vertical jets at full burn. I checked his fuel gauge on my HUD: he wouldn’t have enough to make it on his own, not with the extra weight of the payload.

  I thrust toward Mauler and met him halfway. I wrapped my arms around the chest area of his ATLAS 5, below the armpits, just as his jets cut out.

  “I’m out of fuel!” Mauler sent.

  “I know.” My jumpjets stuttered under the combined weight of our mechs and the payload, and I moved upward in spurts. I glanced at my own fuel supply. Dangerously low. The darkness of the abyss beckoned below, waiting to draw us down into the depths of hell.

  To Facehopper I sent: “We’re not going to make it!”

  Facehopper’s ATLAS 5 was already there above me.

  Leaving one arm wrapped around Mauler’s chest, I reached up to grab the outstretched hand of Facehopper’s mech just as I, too, ran out of fuel.

  Facehopper exhausted his own fuel supply a moment after that.

  But then another metallic hand wrapped around his. Fret.

  This process repeated: one of my brothers would latch onto the highest ATLAS, jet upwards, then when he ran out of fuel, another brother would grab his mech in turn.

  Soon we’d formed a chain eight ATLAS 5s long. Ghost formed the final, topmost piece. His ATLAS 5 sputtered and jerked as his jetpack fought against the weight. His mech approached the tunnel opening in spurts from below. He reached upward with his free arm.

  We’re not going to make it, I thought, glancing at his fuel gauge.

  But just before Ghost’s fuel ran out entirely, he managed to wrap his large steel hand around the ledge.

  “That’s it, I’m out,” Ghost said as his pack cut out. He hung there precariously.

  The chain of ATLAS 5s gently rocked to and fro, the metal of our hulls groaning and creaking.

  We couldn’t simply eject from our cockpits and jet our way back up in our jumpsuits. We’d set up our mechs to draw fuel from the tanks of our suits if the main cylinders expired, which meant we’d exhausted our jumpsuit fuel supplies, too.

  So there we were, this chain of mechs with a combined weight of over twenty tonnes, hanging helplessly over an abyss of unknown depth, the lot of us held in place by the arm of a single ATLAS 5 whose servomotors were rated for maybe a quarter of that weight. It was no wonder Ghost couldn’t bend his arm and pull himself up. We were lucky the arm hadn’t ripped off entirely.

  I glanced past Mauler into the unending darkness below. I hadn’t heard an impact from the slug, though a form as massive as that would definitely make a resounding thud. That meant it hadn’t hit the bottom yet.

  The bottom. I wondered if the pit even had one. Maybe it passed right through the mantle into the core of the moon and emerged on the other side. With the oddities we’d seen in these warrens so far, that wouldn’t surprise me.

  “Mauler, see if you can climb over Cyclone and the rest of us,” Facehopper said.

  Below me, Mauler released the payload with his right hand so that he held it entirely with his left. The shift in weight pulled him sideways.

  I tightened my grip on the lone arm I had wrapped around his chest. Above me I felt Facehopper’s hold stiffen on my other wrist.

  Mauler reached up and wrapped his free hand around my neck.

  “Let go of me, Cyclone,” Mauler sent.

  I did. Slowly, reluctantly, but I did.

  Mauler’s weight shifted to the back of Wolfhound’s neck, which was transmitted to my own neck via the load mirroring. My head snapped forward. I felt a couple of vertebrae in my neck grate together. Wasn’t pleasant.

  “Help him if you can, Cyclone,” Facehopper sent.

  “Trying,” I said between gritted teeth.

  I positioned my arm around the backside of his mech and held him in place as he released me and reached higher. I was just glad to get that pressure off my neck.

  Mauler wrapped his steel fingers around the wrist of Facehopper’s mech above me and hauled himself up.

  I set my free arm against my chest, providing a ledge for Mauler’s feet. The payload was now at just the right height to bounce repeatedly against my head. Fantastic.

  Mauler positioned the payload behind my mech’s extended arm so that when he let go of Facehopper the weight of the warhead wouldn’t yank him backward. Mauler pulled his mech higher, placing his feet on my shoulders. Then he stood up, sliding the payload as far as he could around the other side of Facehopper’s ATLAS 5. Mauler let go of the mech with his other hand and, balancing precariously, reached upward. In another moment his weight left me entirely.

  Mauler proceeded that way up the chain and when he reached the halfway mark, Facehopper said over the comm: “You might as well start your way up, too, Cyclone.”

  And so I did, pulling myself along the ladder of mechs, using their servomotors and actuated joints for purchase. The metal hulls of the ATLAS 5s groaned under the strain beneath me. I ignored the sound, trying not to think about what would happen if one of those joints failed. I moved faster than Mauler, because I had both hands free, and soon I was right behind him, ready to give him a boost if necessary.

  Facehopper was about to join us but TJ recommended against it. “There are too many sheer forces on the topmost mechs already, especially Ghost’s,” TJ sent. It sounded like he was winded. As his mech was located just below Ghost’s, that wasn’t all too surprising, given how much weight he bore and the load-mirroring effect of the cockpit actuators.

  Mauler and I continued alone up the chain.

  And then, near the top, Mauler somehow slipped.

  I wasn’t watching but when his ATLAS slammed into Wolfhound, I nearly lost my hold on TJ’s mech.

  Mauler rebounded from my steel body and I reflexively flung out a hand, narrowly latching onto his wrist. He dangled into the abyss, repeatedly bouncing against TJ’s mech beside us.

  I hauled him upward; the servomotors whined outside my cockpit, and my arm burned from the load resistance.

  Mauler latched onto Ghost and I released him.

  I exhaled in relief. That was much too close.

  “Thanks, bro,” Mauler sent.

  “Just get your ass over that ledge,” I returned.

  Mauler climbed over Ghost and finally hoisted the payload onto the ledge and pulled himself up.

  I scaled Ghost’s ATLAS 5 next. As I neared the upper rim of the tunnel, Mauler abruptly shouted a single word over the comm.

  “Shit!”

  Mauler’s mech leaped over the ledge and out into space, payload and all.

  Time seemed to slow down for me. I reached out, trying to grab him, but he had jumped too far.

  His ATLAS 5 descended, inexorably, into the abyss.

  “Mauler—” Facehopper began.


  Our leading petty officer was cut off as another superslug plunged through the tunnel opening.

  The gargantuan tore Ghost and the rest of us from the wall as it passed, and we were sent hurtling down after Mauler, our delicate chain breaking apart as we BASE jumped into the depths of hell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rade

  The press of alien jumpsuits in that tight corridor didn’t slacken, and it hemmed us in from both sides.

  The Chief’s hands moved swiftly over the warhead’s command console as he input a countdown.

  I wished there was a way out of this. But there wasn’t. We were going to die in a nuclear explosion inside an alien vessel. We would cause as much damage as we could, but even so we were far from our objective, the Observer Mind. It seemed like such a waste.

  Manic loaded a last rocket round from his belt and fired. During the resultant flash explosion I noticed the living bulkheads shrank away from the impact zone.

  Wait a second . . .

  “Chief!” I said over the comm. “Wait.”

  Looking from the command console, the Chief glanced at me. I saw relief in his eyes but also anger. He was ready to die. We all were. And now he wanted to know why I’d brought us back from the brink. And it’d better be a damn good reason, those blazing eyes said.

  “Who has an incendiary thrower?” I sent.

  Manic and Lui answered in the affirmative.

  “Manic, point your incendiary at the bulkhead and fire a controlled burst.”

  He did so. Incendiary throwers added oxidants to jellied gasoline, allowing the weapons to function even in oxygenless environments such as this. The instant Manic ceased spraying the weapon, the flames burned out.

  I didn’t watch the fire touch the bulkhead directly as I was still busy releasing my 9-mil at the aliens. I glanced to the side as the flames faded, however, and I saw what I expected: the living pipes had moved away from the fire, creating a gap that slowly closed as I watched.

  Manic turned, wide-eyed, toward the Chief.

  “Good job, Rage,” the Chief said. “Manic and Lui, make us a corridor. Snakeoil, follow them. Use your plasma cutter and widen the corridor as necessary for the rest of us. Hijak, Bender, Rage, and myself will go in after Snakeoil, carrying the warhead. Skullcracker, you’ll bring up the rear. We have to move quickly—the corridor will be shrinking the whole time.”