ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2)

by Isaac Hooke

  “But humanity does not have to die out as a species. Obey us, and twenty percent of you will live: the twenty percent who contribute eighty percent of your societal output—the artists, engineers, scientists, and so forth. The remaining eighty percent of humanity, the unnecessary, superfluous dead weight, shall perish. We are doing you a favor, in actuality. Trimming away the fat, as it were.”

  Stunned, I just stood there for a few seconds. “Only twenty percent of humanity will live?”

  “Yes. If you surrender. Otherwise less than one percent will be spared, to be used solely as breeding matter for Geronium production, and our entertainment.”

  I had to snicker at that. “Let’s say we listen. We surrender. What happens to that twenty percent? The elite of humanity. Where will they live? Will they become hosts? Integrated, as you call it?”

  “They will remain entirely human, and will live in peace on a designated planet. Perhaps your current homeworld, Earth. They will be given technology to increase their lifespan and quality of life. Everyone will be equal. All that we ask is the survivors obey us when the time comes, and let us draft capable men and women into our service. Do these things, and your place in the galaxy is secured.”

  I laughed. “So that you can eventually kill us or our descendants off for fuel? No thanks. Humanity will never agree to that.”

  “Some of you already have,” the Guide said, nodding at the astrogator and tactical officer, who very carefully did not look back. As I mentioned, neither man had a steel bar grafted to his spine. “Why would you want to resist, anyway? Humanity will thrive under our tutelage. You will know an era of peace and prosperity unlike any you have ever experienced before.”

  “Yeah, as disposable breeders.”

  “When the time comes we will assign a small portion of your race to appropriate planets for breeding purposes, via a fair lottery. But that will be an age from now.”

  “The governments of humanity will never agree to any of this,” I said. “Let me guess: you’re going to take away our Gates, and our starships too?”

  The Guide nodded. “You will be restricted to the designated home planet as part of the agreement.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t take a space-faring people and knock them back to the stone ages. And you can’t kill eighty percent of their population. The governments of humanity won’t submit to either scenario. I’m sorry, this surrender isn’t going to happen.”

  “Do you speak for all of humankind?” the Guide said, then nodded to itself when I didn’t answer. “I thought not. If humanity surrenders, the quality of life enjoyed by your race will improve by a factor of ten. Billions of your people currently live in starvation and poverty, while billions more enjoy the comforts of limitless food and advanced technology. These ‘haves’ essentially live off the ‘have-nots,’ expending needless resources on such endeavors as colonization, when the time and energy could be better spent solving the problems of your homeworld.

  “By reducing your population to twenty percent, we solve all these societal issues in one blow. In any case, a twenty-percent survival rate is much preferable to one percent. As the months pass, and the population of humanity continues to dwindle, the system governments will agree with my assessment. And they will surrender.”

  The Guide sat down in the captain’s seat, and swiveled the chair toward me. “No doubt you have wondered why I have allowed you, a mere peon, to ask these questions. The answer is simple: I will let one of you go, so that he may report everything he has seen and heard. The one who returns will give his superiors full access to the data recorded in his embedded ID, and thus inform the United Countries and other empires of Earth they have one Stanyear to consider my offer. Meanwhile, my race will continue its advance, taking your colonies, making them our own. And if your people flee these colonies in excessive numbers ahead of our advance, we may steer toward the most populous planet in the region early. Yes: Earth. We want inhabited worlds, remember.”

  The Guide put his hands behind his head. “So. Now you have a choice. A dilemma, perhaps. Who will remain behind and become a host? And who will go free and spread the word of our generous offer? Choose, quickly. Or I will choose for you.”

  I stepped forward immediately. “Take me and let my brother go.”

  The Guide opened its mouth, but before it could say a word, Hijak came to my side.

  “I’m not leaving you behind,” Hijak said.

  “You are.” I gazed into his eyes. “It has to be me. You know it does. You’re the caterpillar.”

  “I have a callsign now. Don’t do this.”

  I swallowed. I realized I had to tell him why I was doing it or he’d never let me go. This was going to be hard. “I . . . I haven’t treated you very well these past few months. I didn’t think you deserved to be here. I was wrong. I had this coming, Hijak. Karma’s a bitch.”

  Hijak shook his head. “You had every right to treat me the way you did. I had to prove myself. I’m still proving myself this very moment. When I signed up, I knew that someday I might have to make the ultimate sacrifice for one of my platoon brothers. I choose to make it now. I’m ready. Let it be me, Rage. Me.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.” I raised my electrocuffed hands and gripped Hijak by the shoulder. “I have to do this. Besides, I outrank you. So I’m ordering you to stand down.”

  Hijak twisted from my grasp. “That’s bullshit and you know it. We’re the same rank. Sir.”

  “True. But I attained my rank before you. Seniority in grade, bro.”

  Hijak shook his head.

  “Look, Hijak,” I said. “You know why it has to be me? I was going to transfer to a different Team anyway. Probably quit, after that. My heart’s not in this job, not anymore. We need real MOTHs. People like you. People ready to fight and die for what they believe in. People with heart. I don’t have that anymore. My warrior spirit died with my friends.”

  Hijak wouldn’t stand down. “And I’ll tell you why it has to be me. I broke when the Keeper interrogated me, Rage. Broke. Betrayed the platoon. I can’t live with what I’ve done. Not if I let you die, too. Let me do this. You have to. You deserve to live. Besides, you never know, maybe I’ll be able to learn something about the enemy while I’m integrated. It’ll be like an extreme undercover op, except with some crazy body modification. When you and the platoon come back for me, I’ll have some stories to tell.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t get it do you? There is no coming back from this. A steel bar grafted to your skull and spine, with a Phant shoving its incorporeal tendrils into your brain? No, Hijak, there’s no return. You heard the Guide. You’ll become worse than a slave. Look at these people. They’re hardly more than machines now. I’m sorry, I’ve made up my mind.” I turned toward the Guide. “I volunteer. Let him go.”

  “Very well,” the Guide said.

  “Sorry, sir,” Hijak’s voice came from behind me. “But you’re forcing me to do this.”

  Something struck the back of my head with enough force to jar my teeth, and I fell to my knees. I groggily shook the stars from my vision.

  I was vaguely aware as Hijak stepped past me. Even with his hands electrocuffed, he could still hit pretty hard.

  “Take me and let Rage go,” Hijak said.

  The Guide spoke. “Well played, Dyson Xang.” To the robots: “Take the one left standing.”

  I watched two masters-at-arms robots grab Hijak. “No.” I said weakly.

  The Guide ignored me, and glanced at Jiāndāo. “Oversee his integration.”

  Jiāndāo inclined her head.

  “Hijak,” I said, pleading.

  Hijak glanced over his shoulder at me. “It’s all right, Rage. They can’t harm me now. No one can.”

  And then he was gone, led off the bridge by Jiāndāo and the combat robots.

  I slumped.

 
“Rade Galaal,” the Guide said. “Your jumpsuit will be returned, and you will be vented from an airlock. Once outside our ship, you will activate your Personal Alert Safety System. If you are lucky, one of your ships will pick you up before your oxygen runs out. If you are unlucky, you will die, and the UC will retrieve your body anyway, along with your embedded ID. Your military has the technology to access the ID without a password. A technology I will have very soon.” The Guide smiled ironically. “It has been a pleasure.”

  Two robots led me from the bridge.

  I didn’t see Hijak in the corridor outside. However his Implant, like my own, was still active.

  And he was logged in.

  I watched his progress on my HUD map. He retraced the exact path we had taken from the Convalescence Ward. The dot representing Hijak descended to the lower deck, turned left onto the T intersection, and entered the closed-off hallway containing the ward. He proceeded into a side compartment across from the ward, and stayed there.

  Wards on UC vessels had similar layouts. Across from the recovery area there was always a small compartment set aside for intensive surgery.

  I shut my eyes.

  Hijak was going to be integrated with the Phants in a surgical process that would essentially kill who he was.

  And it was my fault. I shouldn’t have turned my back on him. Shouldn’t have let him get the jump on me.

  I arrived at a storage locker.

  The robots opened the locker and tossed out the contents.

  My jumpsuit.

  “Dress,” one of the robots commanded.

  My electrocuffs clicked open and fell off.

  I just stared at the jumpsuit. I couldn’t take my mind off Hijak, nor the magnitude of my betrayal. I was leaving him behind. He was going to die.

  The robots drew their rifles and trained them on me. “Dress.”

  I zipped on the “liquid-cooling and ventilation” undergarment. When I got to the actual jumpsuit, I activated my PASS device immediately, pretending it was part of the suit initialization procedure. It was questionable whether the signal would pass through the shielded hull of the vessel, and even if it did, the interference emitted by the Phants likely reduced the range. If the signal was detected, it would be quite a while before any nearby ships reached this location anyway.

  When I was fully suited, I attached the life-support and jumpjet assemblies.

  The robots led me to an airlock.

  So this was it.

  I was going to be unceremoniously flushed from the ship.

  I would live.

  And Hijak would die.

  This wasn’t right.

  I couldn’t leave him.

  I couldn’t abandon him.

  Despite our differences, he was my platoon brother.

  Abandonment wasn’t part of our creed.

  I surreptitiously unclasped the main buckles of my jetpack, and let the device hang over my jumpsuit by the shoulder straps alone.

  The robots shoved me inside the airlock.

  Before they could close the hatch, I turned around, slipped off the jetpack, and swung it toward them.

  “Catch!”

  I activated the jetpack remotely with my Implant, applying full forward thrust to double its momentum.

  The jetpack slammed into the robots like a sledgehammer of steel and fuel.

  The machines crashed into the opposite bulkhead.

  I cut the power and the robots crumpled to the deck.

  They didn’t get up.

  I glanced one last time at Hijak’s location on my HUD map, doing my best to memorize the route. Then I thought the words to deactivate my Implant, because I knew a crippling burst of EM radiation from the Phants would probably fill my Implant with garbage data any second.

  Zulu Romeo Lima.

  The Implant shut off.

  I opened my face mask and stepped from the airlock.

  Drops of glowing liquid trickled onto the deck from the robot that had taken the brunt of the blow.

  Keeping my eyes on the liquid Phant, I knelt to retrieve the disabled robot’s rifle—

  A hand abruptly wrapped around my boot and tripped me.

  The other robot.

  It was pinned beneath the first, but as I lay facedown on the deck, it reeled me in, drawing me toward it and the Phant.

  I got in three good kicks with my strength-enhanced suit, and dented the robot’s head enough for it to release me.

  I scrambled away and hauled myself upright.

  The robot tossed aside the deadweight of my jetpack and the second machine and started to rise.

  It still carried its rifle.

  If the weapon fired, regardless of whether the bullet hit or not, I was screwed because the ship’s gunfire alert would sound.

  Before the robot finished standing, I closed the distance between us, stepped down on the rifle with my strength-enhanced suit, and shoved the robot into the bulkhead.

  The weapon tore from the robot’s grasp and bounced on the deck. The tip of the barrel was now uselessly bent. It would still fire of course, though at forty-five degrees to the actual gunsights.

  The robot launched itself on me, its fist aimed squarely at my unshielded face.

  I managed to turn my head at the last moment, and the outer rim of my helmet absorbed most of the blow. I lurched backward and hit the bulkhead just behind me.

  The robot launched another blow.

  I dodged.

  A small crater appeared in the bulkhead where the robot’s fist struck.

  I threw myself at the robot, hurling the two of us to the floor.

  I landed on top.

  I managed to grab its left arm and, putting the weight of my suit behind my grip, pinned the robot.

  Its right arm came swinging in, aimed for my face.

  I tilted my head to the side in expectation of a blow that did not come.

  Instead of slamming its fist into me, the robot wrapped its polycarbonate fingers around my head and began pushing my helmet toward the deck.

  I thought it was trying to break my neck, but when my cheek touched the deck, I realized the robot’s intention: the glowing blue liquid from the first Phant seeped toward my face. I had maybe fifteen seconds before contact.

  I shoved frantically against the polycarbonate arm, but the robot had me good. I couldn’t move.

  I slid my free hand along the robot’s face, searching for one of the camera lenses by touch. I could feel the recesses and projections through my gloves when I pressed hard enough.

  There. A lens.

  Military-grade lenses were made of thick glass, so I wouldn’t be able to break it with a mere glove, strength-enhanced or not.

  But I had something else in mind.

  I pointed the surgical laser in my fingertip into the lens. I got lucky, because this was my good glove. The other one had a melted laser port, courtesy of my encounter with the ATLAS 5 back in the ruins of Shangde City.

  “Laser pulse, 1500t,” I said. My helmet picked up the request, and the laser in my finger pulsed for 1500 trillionths of a second, right into the heart of the camera lens.

  I slid my finger down to the second lens, and repeated the command.

  In theory, I had taken out both its vision sensors.

  But the robot didn’t lessen the pressure on my helmet.

  Maybe those weren’t the lenses . . . I couldn’t actually see its face from where I was. Or maybe it just didn’t care that it was blind.

  The liquid Phant was almost upon me.

  I slid my boot sideways, and found purchase against the bulkhead. I pushed off, finally slipping from the robot’s grip.

  With nothing to press down against, the robot’s arm slammed into the deck with a loud clang.

  I rolled b
ack, and stood up.

  The blind robot fumbled about, searching for me.

  I danced away from it and the Phant, picking up the bent rifle the robot had dropped. Then I repeatedly bashed the stock into the brain case area of the robot. Dents appeared. A lot of them. I hoped the weapon didn’t accidentally fire and set off an alarm.

  Eventually the robot stopped moving and collapsed. Glowing blue liquid seeped out, joining the first Phant on the deck.

  I discarded the bent weapon and, stepping around the two Phants, I returned to the first disabled robot and retrieved its rifle.

  No Klaxon filled the corridor, which meant neither robot had contacted Security. Maybe the Phants possessing them didn’t know about the security systems they could tap into. Or maybe they’d triggered a silent alarm.

  I hauled both robots into the airlock and shut the door. Then I backtracked down the corridor at a run.

  In my head I visualized the ship’s blueprint, doing my best to recall the many corridors from the map. I’d always found it mildly confusing to navigate from the top-down perspective of a HUD given the isometric vantage point of real life, but it was even more disorienting when done from memory. I had to backtrack several times, taking detours to avoid any masters-at-arms robots I spotted. None of the robots seemed on high alert, I noted.

  Hang in there, Hijak.

  My PASS device was still on. I was slightly worried the Guide might use it to track my whereabouts, but since the UC devices operated on a different band from the SK ones, if the bridge crew didn’t specifically look for the signal, I’d be invisible. Besides, if the Guide really wanted to track me, he could use the security cameras that decorated the overhead. I realized a while ago no one was manning the ship’s security station, at least not properly, because I’d passed several of those cameras without raising an alarm. Perhaps the unintegrated human being who I had thought operated the tactical station was in fact handling Security.

  And perhaps he was giving me a chance.

  It gave me hope for the future of humanity yet.

  One deck down, I eventually reached the T intersection that led to the closed-off hallway I sought.

  I slowly peered past the edge of the intersection.