ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2)

by Isaac Hooke

  Gunfire homed in on me from the courtyard.

  I flattened myself against the stone, ducking behind the inner rim of the wall. Chips of concrete flew past my head.

  “F2 taking fire from the courtyard!” I said. F2 stood for Fire Team Two. We’d gone for simple names today.

  I switched my viewpoint to a nearby support drone.

  The women by the pool continued screaming and running. The Skin Musicians with them did the wise thing and simply dropped.

  I heard return fire from the far side of the compound, and the incoming bullets abruptly ceased. I switched back to my helmet point of view, and glanced over the rim: the remaining three combatants had fallen. Their bullet-ridden bodies lay scattered at various points along the concrete pool deck.

  “F1 moving in,” Facehopper transmitted.

  I glanced at my HUD map and saw four green dots approaching the palace entrance: Facehopper’s fire team was closing in to secure the targets.

  A few tense moments passed. I scanned the palace windows with my sniper rifle, occasionally flicking my eyes to the HUD map to keep apprised of the situation. Trace had spotted combat robots on patrol inside the palace earlier. Passing in and out of view beyond the windows, the robots had moved in a semirandom pattern that made it impossible to predict where they would show up next.

  I caught a flash of movement beyond one window, then a second flash at nearly the same time from a different window farther back. I rewound my vision feed a few seconds, repositioned it in the upper right of my HUD, and played it back at a quarter of the speed.

  At that slower playback, I was able to discern exactly what had sprinted past the windows. I saw the blur of box-like shapes; light glinted off black and yellow polycarbonate skin.

  Combat robots, as suspected.

  “Facehopper,” I sent over the comm. “Combat robots are rushing toward the palace entrance.”

  In reply, distant gunfire erupted from the palace.

  “F1 taking fire,” Facehopper sent. “Sending in HS3 drones.” HS3 stood for Hover Squad Support System. HS3s were basically basketball-sized, jet-propelled robotic scouts. The little round bastards were tricky as hell for human snipers to target because of their jerky movements, but they were relatively easy for robot snipers to take down. Either Facehopper wanted to get some limited telemetry on the combat robots, or he wanted to distract them. Maybe both.

  On the HUD map, blue dots representing the HS3s fanned outward from behind Facehopper. New dots appeared, these ones red, as the HS3s transmitted the locations of the enemy combatants to our Implants.

  I couldn’t get a bead on any of the targets from where I was perched. The combat robots inside the palace had positioned themselves well, and they’d taken into account the lines of fire from the windows in addition to the foyer.

  The blue dots of the HS3s abruptly blinked out, and the red dots froze. The scouts had been shot down. Like I said: easy targets for robots.

  “We’re pinned!” Facehopper sent. “Three combat robots! Palace foyer. Snipers, can you take them out?”

  “Negative,” Trace sent.

  “I got nothing,” I said.

  “Same,” echoed Ghost.

  “Lui?” Facehopper sent.

  “On my way,” Lui transmitted.

  On the map, I saw the green dot representing Lui move away from the servant’s quarters on the far side of the palace, where he’d been lying low.

  Three red dots abruptly blocked his path.

  Lui paused, as if answering some challenge.

  One of the red dots faded to black, indicating a terminated target, then the dot representing Lui dodged to the right, ducking within what looked like a side hallway.

  “I’m pinned,” Lui transmitted.

  “Dammit,” Facehopper sent. “We have to administer those antidotes or the targets will die.”

  I glanced at the heartbeat monitors overlaying my vision. I hadn’t noticed during the mayhem, but the vitals associated with our two main targets had dipped.

  Not good.

  “I’m on it.” I dropped down from the wall, into the flora that grew along the inside of the compound, and landed beside the dead sentry whose smell I had complained of earlier. I raced toward the pool area.

  The moment I hit the concrete deck I started taking fire. I dove behind one of the potted plants that bordered the pool area. Had the automated defense systems reactivated?

  Shards of clay broke away from the urn that held the plant, and I crouched lower. Suppressive fire came from my platoon brothers on the wall behind me, giving me a chance to peer past the rim. That’s when I realized my attacker wasn’t part of the automated defense system at all, but rather one of the scantily clad “party” women. Crouched behind the diving board, she’d produced a powerful 9-mil, and she knew how to use it. Likely a privateer, then.

  I was about to take her down. But something stopped me.

  I remembered what the job counselor had told me when I first signed up: someday there might come a time when I’d have to shoot a beautiful woman to save myself or my platoon. I’d told the counselor I’d have no problem doing that. I promised him I’d be able to perform my duty without question, no matter who got in my way.

  And yet now that it came to it, I hesitated.

  “Rage,” Trace sent. “I can’t get a clear shot on the diving-board shooter. Can you take her out?”

  “I’m going to go back for my tranq gun,” I said. “Ghost, toss it down when I get to the wall.”

  “That’s a negative, Rage,” Ghost sent. His voice sounded strained. “You’ll get hit if you leave cover. The shooter’s good. She already got me in the shoulder. Use your rifle. Take her down.”

  Damn it.

  I aimed past the edge of the potted plant while my platoon brothers laid down covering fire. I had a partial shot—I saw the woman’s hair just beyond the diving board, outlined in red by my Implant.

  Dark hair.

  Now I knew what it was that prevented me from firing.

  She reminded me of Shaw.

  The woman I had lost in Geronimo system, eight thousand lightyears away.

  “Rage!” Trace said. “Our targets are dying!”

  Forget about the financier and the privateer. The two targets didn’t matter right now, nor did the mission objective. All that mattered was the life of my teammates. And every moment of hesitation on my part might cost a teammate his life.

  Already Ghost had been shot in the shoulder, probably because of my inaction.

  Who else would have to suffer, maybe die, because I was too afraid to shoot a beautiful woman?

  I took the shot.

  The woman slumped, her temple hitting the concrete, her arm splaying out beside her. Blood poured from an unseen head wound onto the deck.

  I hunched.

  I felt like an executioner.

  A murderer.

  I wanted to give up right there.

  I’d killed a woman.

  For no reason.

  Wait. I was being too hard on myself. She was shooting at me and my platoon mates. That was reason enough.

  No one tries to kill my platoon brothers.

  No one.

  I got up.

  If I didn’t get to our main targets and administer the antidotes, the woman’s death would be for nothing.

  I reached the back door and flattened myself against the wall beside it. Ghost remained in overwatch position, but Trace and Tahoe joined me to take up positions on the opposite side of the door. The holographic projections from their helmets made them look like SKs, and if it weren’t for the green outlines around their bodies and the labels provided by my HUD, I might have shot them.

  “I don’t think our disguises are keeping the bullets away,” Trace commented, subvocally.

&nbs
p; “As long as the surveillance cams record privateers kidnapping privateers, we’re fine,” I returned, maybe a bit too forcefully.

  Trace’s holographic face gave me a considering look. “She wasn’t a civvie, Rage.”

  “I know.”

  “You had to shoot her,” Trace pressed. “It was either her or us.”

  “I know.” The irritation was obvious in my subvocalization. I don’t think Trace realized I was more angry at myself than him, though. “Now, are you ready?”

  “Go for it,” Trace sent. “ROE say we’re good. None of the civvies came this way. They all fled the compound.”

  “What about the financier’s girlfriend?”

  Trace shrugged. “Either she fled, or she’s still in there. It’s not going to change the ROE. If she shoots at us, we shoot back. If she doesn’t, she lives.”

  “Yeah, unless we mistake her for an enemy,” I said, sarcastically.

  Well, there was no time to argue about ROE now. The main targets were dying in there. I just hoped whatever we did here today didn’t come back to haunt us later.

  I waved my hand over the motion sensor and the door slid open.

  I made a last glance at the HUD map to confirm no friendly units resided in the room beyond, then I cooked a grenade.

  “Frag out,” I said over the platoon-level comm, and threw the grenade into the room.

  The explosive detonated.

  Keeping crouched, Trace and I entered the room. I positioned myself to the left of the entrance, against the wall, while Trace took the right. I went high, Trace low.

  I scanned the room from left to right. I fired a few preventive shots at a cabinet in the hall beyond, in case any enemy combatants had taken cover behind it.

  “What you got?” Trace sent in response to my gunfire.

  “Nada,” I answered. “Tahoe, left.”

  “Coming in left!” Tahoe plowed inside and positioned himself against the wall behind me, and began scanning the room.

  “Making a circuit!” Trace said.

  I waited for Trace to complete his circuit of the room. The Bengali moved quickly past the outgoing doorways, ducking from furniture piece to furniture piece. In a moment he was back at the entrance.

  “Clear!” he said.

  I nodded, and marked the room as clear on the map.

  “Tahoe and I will administer the antidote to the targets upstairs,” I told Trace. “Make your way to the foyer and see if you can help Facehopper.”

  Funny how small microdecisions can lead to big disasters. Looking back, I realized I should have kept Trace with us. But when you’re riding the adrenaline high of the moment, it can be tough to see the bigger picture.

  Trace nodded, then hurried toward the westside doorway, which would eventually take him to the foyer, as per my instructions. I could hear the distant, steady exchange of gunfire coming from that direction.

  Tahoe and I cleared the next room in much the same manner, and then carefully proceeded up the ornate spiral staircase on the far side. We kept our rifles trained on the balcony above. It seemed free of combatants, at least from down here. Ordinarily I would’ve launched a preemptive grenade just in case, but I couldn’t do that because our main targets were unconscious up there.

  Luck was on my side that day, because when we were about halfway up those stairs I spotted a rifle muzzle slinking between the upper banisters.

  “Down!” I said.

  Tahoe and I dropped where we were. A grenade bounced down the steps.

  Tahoe and I looked at each other, then we activated our jetpacks in full horizontal reverse.

  The grenade went off seconds after we’d left the stairwell.

  The explosion hurtled me into the far wall, and I slid to the floor.

  Gunfire erupted from upstairs. I rolled behind a small cabinet, feeling groggy. I was vaguely aware as Tahoe took cover on the floor across from me, beyond the lower banisters of the spiral staircase.

  I blinked away the dizziness long enough to say over the comm, “Taking fire from upstairs!”

  We could’ve really used Trace right then.

  “Hold on!” Facehopper sent.

  I glanced at Tahoe’s vitals. Bright green, as before. The vitals representing the financier and privateer captain, conversely, were a dark green tinged with red—it wasn’t them shooting at us. They were still unconscious, and we’d lose them, soon.

  Pieces of the cabinet broke away beside me as bullets from above traveled right through the thick wood. I may as well have hidden behind papier mâché for all the good it was doing me.

  “Rade,” Tahoe said. “Armor piercers!”

  “Kinda figured that,” I said. “I’m a bit vulnerable here. Some cover?”

  Tahoe let loose a wave of suppressive fire and I dove deeper into the room. I landed behind a couch.

  “Well, this mission has gone downhill fast,” I said.

  “Got one of them!” Tahoe sent. Then: “Ugh!”

  “Tahoe!” I peered out from behind the couch. “You okay?”

  I saw him lying flat on the floor behind the banisters, unmoving. His vitals had taken a dip, and had suddenly grown very dark.

  I fired suppressive rounds at the balcony. “Tahoe?”

  Still he didn’t move. Now I was getting worried.

  I fired off more shots, getting ready to make a mad dash to his side. “Tahoe you son of a bitch, answer me!”

  Finally he stirred. His vitals brightened. “Just got the wind knocked out of me is all.”

  “Where are you hit?”

  He lethargically resumed his position behind the lower banisters. “The shoulder. Suit absorbed half the impact. I’ll live.”

  “Shoulder wounds seem to be popular today.” Better than head wounds.

  I made a quick mental evaluation of the situation. I could still hear gunfire coming from the foyer, and I doubted help was coming from that side of the palace any time soon. Facehopper was relying on us to reach the main targets on the balcony by ourselves, if we could.

  I wasn’t about to let him down.

  I examined the map of the second floor. I thought I saw a way to outflank the upstairs attackers. “Tahoe, can you cover me again?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded winded.

  I instinctively glanced at his vitals again. Hadn’t changed.

  “Then do it. I’m going to make a break for the rear entrance.”

  He glanced at me from across the room. I thought he was going to ask me why I was going back again, but then he obediently laid down suppressive fire with his heavy machine gun.

  He trusted me to the core.

  I dove through the doorway into the adjacent room. I landed, rolled to my feet, and took cover beside the doorway. I made a quick scan of the room with my rifle, even though I’d already marked it as clear (MOTHs were cautious like that), and then I hurried to the rear door.

  Outside, the pool area seemed quiet.

  “How’s it look, Ghost?” I sent, wanting to be sure.

  “Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse,” Ghost replied from where we’d left him on overwatch. There was no hint of pain in his voice. He was carrying on his duties to his brothers despite his wound. Like any of us would.

  I could still hear the roar of Tahoe’s heavy machine gun behind me. “Tahoe, bro, let them return fire for a minute.”

  The heavy gun cut out.

  I waited until I heard the sound of small arms fire from the next room, then I vaulted outside, spun around, and activated my jetpack. I landed on the ledge just beside the upstairs window.

  Grasping one of the eaves above me for balance, I carefully peered around the window frame.

  It looked like I’d interpreted the map properly: this was the same window I thought it was. Beyond, I could see the assail
ants. They were privateer sentries, dressed in black jumpsuits. Two alive; one dead and bleeding out on the floor, thanks to Tahoe. The unguarded backs of the living two were exposed as they aimed down at Tahoe’s position through the banisters.

  Amateurs.

  I was glad to catch a break here. If those buffoons had been combat robots, they wouldn’t have made the mistake of leaving their rear unguarded.

  Now I just had to figure out how to get a shot off through the bulletproof glass. The three bullet holes from Trace’s earlier shots marred the center of the glass. I couldn’t just ram the barrel of my rifle into the holes and fire, because there wasn’t enough room to aim from the ledge. Nor could I create new holes from here, for the same reason.

  But if I leaped backward, out into the empty air, and initiated a continuous burst from my jetpack . . .

  I programmed the desired trajectory into my jetpack, using the position of the two privateers in relation to the window, and directed the autopilot to fire the appropriate nozzles to put me in position half a meter up and two meters away from the ledge and hold me there for three seconds. It would take me about two seconds to aim and fire at each target. If I missed, the privateers would likely reposition, and possibly snipe me before I landed.

  I’d just have to make sure I didn’t miss. Hopefully the artifacts in the glass from Trace’s bulletholes wouldn’t interfere with my aim.

  Since this was going to be a relatively close shot, I made a mental note to use the iron sights built into the barrel, which would be visible through the translucent scope mounts.

  I took three deep breaths.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  I leaped backward and engaged the autopilot.

  The jetpack brought me to the designated position in midair, and held me there.

  I aimed and let off two quick shots, moving the barrel between targets—

  The bulletproof glass perforated twice beneath my powerful armor-piercing rounds—

  I scored two successive head shots. The privateers died without even knowing what hit them.

  “Tahoe, the upstairs hallway is clear,” I transmitted as I soft-landed on the courtyard below. “I say again, the upstairs hallway is clear!”