ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2)

by Isaac Hooke

  “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

  As the 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 ear
ned 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 of
fline.” 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.

  I should have never come here. I should have told Fan to take me directly to that oxygen extractor of his. Then at least I would have had a chance. But now, faced with this stubborn mech, I was going to die.

  It was time to pull out all the stops. “Battlehawk. This entire situation is an emergency. For the both of us. Look, when was the last time you were in contact with your platoon, or the ship? That’s right, more than eight months ago. I’m trapped on this planet. As are you. My ship, our ship, abandoned this system. I’m the only member of the UC Navy left on this world. And I’m surrounded by hostiles.

  “Bioengineered animal packs manufactured by the SKs roam the plains. And below the surface lurk the beasts, the alien lifeforms I’m certain you’ve encountered. So I have no doubt this qualifies as an emergency situation. To protect me, you have to let me inside your cockpit. You have to let me pilot you. I’m vulnerable out here. Dying. Don’t you detect the radiation in the air? There’s better rad shielding inside your cockpit. Battlehawk? My oxygen is running out. You have to let me in. You have to open up.”

  I sat down, lowered my head, and rested my helmet on my knees. Stupid, stubborn mechs with their stupid, stubborn AIs.

  I heard an unexpected click come from the direction of the ATLAS 5, followed by the clang of a metallic door falling open.

  I looked up.

  The central hatch of the mech had fallen open, and the cockpit beckoned within.

  “Thank you,” I said, climbing to my feet.

  “Stow your weapon in the provided storage rack before you enter,” Battlehawk said.

  That’s right. Because an internal cocoon would wrap my body when I went into the cockpit, the only weapon I could really carry was a pistol at my belt. The rifle would just get pushed into my jumpsuit, and might even puncture it.