ATLAS 3 (ATLAS Series Book 3)

by Isaac Hooke

  “I tried to get out of Hongleong City when the Great Death appeared above our sister moon. I went with Tung and his family to the spaceports, which were packed. All the vessels were booked. ‘We must wait,’ the officials told us. ‘Until more evacuation ships arrive. Remain calm, return home, and wait.’ So we did. The next wave of evacuation vessels came but they still did not have room for us. So we waited for the next. And the next. Finally the Great Death reached our moon, too.”

  Giger closed his eyes, shaking his head. But then he gazed at Tung fondly and smiled. “You know, the boy came to me when he was six years old. He wanted to learn everything there was to know about the ATLAS mechs my customers brought to the shop. He wanted to help repair them. I told him no, but he was persistent and came every day. I finally hired him on as an extra mechanic. Quarter time, mind you: I respect the labor laws. Still, can you imagine it? A six-year-old human mechanic. He was perfect, the same size as a mech repair bot, his body just the right dimensions to fit between the tight panels and inner compartments of a mech. I could only afford to pay him a pittance, unfortunately, but he did it because he loved it. All my other mechanics were robots and he helped me fix them, too, when they broke down.”

  Giger sighed deeply. “But now? He’ll never work as a mechanic again. Look at him. He just turned seven and he can barely even talk to a robot. And I don’t know if you saw it, but even when he was riding the ATLAS mech with me back there, he was deathly afraid. This invasion, it has ruined him.”

  I pressed my lips together, not really sure what to say. I did in fact remember how frightened the boy had appeared back in the garage, when he was sitting up in the passenger seat of my mech, his aReal visor momentarily raised.

  “This invasion has ruined a lot of people,” I said.

  “A lot of people? But what are other people compared to him? To this child prodigy, this genius, who has been left broken, his family murdered by its own butler robot. It is a tragedy.” Giger’s eyes shone with rage despite his obvious drowsiness. “Out of all of us, Tung has lost the most. And out of all of us, he is the one who must live, no matter the cost!”

  “His family was murdered by its own butler robot?” I said in disbelief.

  Giger nodded. “Possessed by Yaoguai.”

  “No wonder he’s terrified of robots.” I glanced at the kid. He seemed so brave to me. Though he hated robots and mechs, he was the one who had told us about the ATLAS 5s in the first place. And despite his fear, he had even ridden in one. Now he was allowing a Weaver to treat him.

  Brave indeed.

  “You’re right, Giger. It is a tragedy, a goddamn shame, what happened to the kid. And I completely agree, Tung has to live. But so do the rest of us. My brothers and I haven’t come here to die, I guarantee you. We’ll protect you and the kid the best that we can, but I won’t lie to you, we can’t watch over you at all times. So I’m putting Tung in your care. I’m assigning you the job of his custodian and protector. You think you can handle that?”

  Giger nodded gravely, resting a hand on the sawed-off rifle he’d placed on the bed beside him. “I can.” He hesitated, then added: “I’m sorry for getting mad at you. I know you’re trying to help us. It’s just . . . so much pain, so much loss . . .”

  I got up and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “No need to apologize. We’re all on edge, here. Rest, Giger. Go ahead. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

  Giger nodded and then slowly closed his eyes.

  I glanced at Tung from across the ward, and shook my head. Trying to distract myself from what had happened to the kid, I looked from bed to bed, at my brothers who were receiving medical attention. These men had been through so much with me. I didn’t know what I’d do without them. They were the best of the best.

  And yet we had failed. We were supposed to be inside Bogey 2 at that very moment, preparing to detonate our nuclear payload, not cowering in some hospital half a moon away, recovering from wounds we should have never had.

  I wondered if Tahoe and Facehopper fared any better on Tau Ceti II-c. I hoped so. We had to bring down at least one of those Skull Ships.

  Moaning softly, Bender stirred on the nearby bed.

  I went to him. “How are you feeling, Bender?”

  The Weaver had just finished patching up his spleen area, and at that moment was removing a syringe from the dorsal venous network of his hand.

  “A little woozy,” Bender said. “Sort of like I’ve taken a stim and a depressant at the same time. Kind of a fun feeling, actually.”

  I checked his vitals. His internal bleeding had stabilized, and according to the medical log his blood had been completely recycled.

  “That bitch Hijak here?” Bender asked.

  “No, he’s on the rooftop.”

  Bender grimaced. “I checked the logs. Saw how he helped me back there. And you know, I can’t decide whether I want to kill him or nominate him for a medal.”

  “Either way you hate him of course, right?” I grinned widely.

  “Damn right I hate him,” Bender said, though I sensed the affection in his tone. “When we’re done here, I have more than a few hazings planned for him.”

  “You know he’s not a caterpillar anymore, don’t you?”

  “So?” Bender shrugged. “Never stopped me before.”

  I had to smile at that. “True enough.”

  Bender looked at me kind of strange. Like he was evaluating me or something. “Never thought I’d say this, but you’re going to make Chief one day.”

  His words caught me off guard. “Naw, I—”

  “You are,” Bender insisted. “And you know what? I’ll be proud to serve under you. Damn proud.”

  My vision blurred slightly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Bender grinned. “How about, ‘You’re the most badass member of the Team, Bender.’ Or, ‘It’ll be an honor to lead someone of your caliber, Bender.’”

  I laughed, but before I could say anything in answer, Bender closed his eyes and began snoring lightly.

  You’re going to make Chief, someday.

  It was an amusing thought but not something I aspired to. As I had told Chief Bourbonjack earlier, leading men, and making life or death decisions involving the lives of those men, wasn’t my forte.

  But wasn’t that exactly what I had been doing all day?

  I shoved the thought aside, deciding that a quick tour of the unit was in order now that I was on my feet.

  I reached Skullcracker, where the reek of disinfectant competed with the stench of rot. He was unconscious, and the lower assembly of his suit lay on the floor beside the bed. His cooling undergarment had been cut away from one leg. A thick, wet scab circled the area immediately below his knee, marking where the pipes of the Skull Ship had wrapped around him. The scab was surrounded by purple skin, and I could see lesions in the tissue where broken bone had probably protruded, though I couldn’t be entirely sure as the Weaver would have set the break by now.

  I was surprised Skullcracker had been able to walk on the leg for so long. I attributed the feat to one part strength-enhanced jumpsuit and two parts sheer endurance.

  The telescoping limbs of the Weaver were yet working, moving like a spider spinning an intricate web; it repaired damaged blood vessels, injected antibiotics to kill bacteria, and deposited site-specific stem cells to replace lost tissue. The regeneration process would continue after we left the hospital, with the stem cells differentiating into specialized tissues in the coming hours, slowly replenishing any dead flesh. A limb-replacement operation might have been called for, but since the Weaver was running in battlefield mode, there would be no such surgery.

  I moved on, saying a silent prayer for my friend.

  I reached the Chief, but he was still under, so I passed him by and continued onward to Lui, who was having his broken wrist and punctured
foot treated. Beside him, Snakeoil took a catnap in one of the chairs.

  “How’s Lui?” I asked Lui.

  “Resting,” Lui said. “Though he is a bit jumpy, as you might imagine. Though I’m not sure why we’re referring to him in the third person.”

  I grinned. “Because his ego can’t handle the first or second person.”

  “I suppose not. Makes him feel too important. Thanks for taking charge back there, by the way. That was one stressful situation. I’m just glad I didn’t have to command.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Sure, but who led you guys on the rooftop when we were gone?”

  “Snakeoil.”

  “Ah, okay. Well, I’m just glad we all got out of there alive.” I rested a hand on his shoulder. “But take it from me, you would’ve done a hell of a job leading, too.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rage. But seriously, when they offer you the role of leading petty officer, take it.”

  “I’ll think about it. If they offer, which they won’t. Besides, I’m not sure I like the thought of all that admin garbage. Plus, not being able to take the point position anymore? That’s going to hurt.”

  “Hey, leadership always comes with a price,” Lui said.

  “Indeed it does.”

  I moved on, checking in with Hijak and Manic over the comm. “How are things looking up there?”

  “Dead as . . .” Hijak sent through the static. “Dead as . . . damn, having trouble coming up with a good metaphor. Dead as the last robot that dared aim a rifle at my head?”

  “Stay sharp,” I sent back.

  Nearby, the Chief stirred, and I went to him immediately.

  The Weaver remained attached to the Chief’s bed, keeping him under observation. The lower and upper assemblies of his jumpsuit rested on the floor, leaving his cooling undergarment exposed. A broad bandage wrapped his midriff.

  According to my HUD, his vitals were stable. The robot had done a bang-up job on his gut wound. Like the Weaver caring for Skullcracker, it had probably injected stem cells, and I suspected the Chief’s condition would steadily improve in the coming minutes and hours.

  Chief Bourbonjack glanced up at my approach and then reached out to grip my hand. “You did good, Rage.”

  “You checked my vid logs?” I said.

  The Chief nodded. “I did. The fast-forward version, mind you. And like I said, you did good.”

  The Chief still gripped my hand. I felt the bio-printed texture of his flesh, which was similar to corrugated cardboard. My own hand was bioprinted—in fact my entire right arm was. My mech had turned on me during Operation Crimson Pipeline and had basically torn the limb away. Doctor Banye had been happy to issue a replacement.

  I saw the crisscross scars on the Chief’s wrists, the kind of scars one could only obtain from a Keeper’s harness. I had similar scars on my own wrists, a physical reminder of the interrogation I could never forget.

  “Yes,” Chief Bourbonjack said, following my gaze. “You and I are more alike than different. Men like us, we’re born to lead. We go through hell and we keep going. Even when we’re cornered, trapped beyond any hope of rescue, our minds are grinding and churning, trying to find a way out. And usually we do, despite the odds, and despite how hopeless everything seems. We have nerves—and balls—of steel. It’s why men follow us. We lead them when and where no one else can.”

  “Okay, Chief.”

  “One day you’re going to sit where I am,” the Chief said. “I know you’re going to turn down every promotion the Brass sends your way. Because you want to fight, not sit behind a desk pushing pencils. But they’ll make you leading petty officer anyway. Then Chief. You’ll see. It’s what happened to me. I refused advancement for as long as I could, but eventually the Brass had their way.” The Chief lowered his head back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I never wanted to lead, you know. Like you, I didn’t want the responsibility. Thankfully, so far I haven’t lost many men. Those on the Teams are a different breed than ordinary soldiers. We don’t die easily. But even MOTHs can fall when the circumstances become so dire, so overwhelming, that all of our advanced training and technology can’t save us.” He glanced at me, his blazing eyes piercing through to my soul. “If something happens and someone dies, I don’t want you to go about blaming yourself, you hear? If it’s anyone’s fault at the end of the day, it’s mine. Just like the failure of this mission rests on my shoulders alone.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not your fault, Chief.”

  “Oh, but it is. Just as Alejandro’s death was my fault. And Big Dog’s. And your capture.” He smiled sadly. “If I had the ability to trade places with any man who ever died or suffered while serving under me, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t.”

  The Chief’s eyes became wet, and for a second I thought he was going to cry. But he blinked rapidly and the moment passed.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “The best leaders are those who don’t want the job. Those who are afraid of losing the men under them. It’s that guilt, that fear of loss, that makes them such damn good leaders in the first place. It forces them to think real hard before every decision they make.”

  “Wouldn’t it also lead to inaction?” I said. “Because of the fear of making mistakes?”

  “It can,” Chief Bourbonjack agreed. “Which is why we can never second-guess ourselves. Always move on in the heat of battle. Never look back. Never regret what’s been done. Save the men you can save, and mourn the dead later.”

  I nodded slowly. Mourn the dead later. I’d mourn them for the rest of my life, I knew.

  I reached into my cargo pocket. “I have something for you.” I retrieved the flat-tipped bullet and dropped it into the Chief’s hand. “I extracted this little trinket from your gut, earlier.”

  Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, the Chief examined the flattened projectile, turning it about in front of his face. “Funny how something so small can be so deadly. It seems like nothing, now. Just a tiny, harmless piece of metal. But the moment you put it in a rifle it becomes one of the deadliest objects in the world.” He tossed the bullet back to me. “Keep it. For good luck.”

  I raised an eyebrow and then pocketed the item. I moved away to let the Chief rest.

  Since I’d checked on everyone in the squad, I decided it was time to return to the kid and see how he was doing.

  Tung sat quietly in front of the psychological Weaver. The robot had shut down, apparently having finished its work. But I knew full well that if there was anyone the Weavers couldn’t heal, it was Tung.

  I mussed his hair. “So, how’s my favorite soldier?”

  “Good,” he answered in Korean-Chinese, feigning a smile.

  Well, at least he could smile. Ten minutes ago he couldn’t even manage that.

  I wheeled the Weaver to the far side of the room, away from Tung’s hearing, and queried the robot for its diagnosis.

  “Subject has been exposed to a traumatic event,” the Weaver said in its overly cheerful female voice. “Subject experiences intense negative psychological response to any reminder of said traumatic event. Subject has decreased capacity to feel empathy. Subject has difficulty concentrating. Subject—”

  “The short diagnosis,” I interrupted.

  “Subject suffers from acute stress disorder,” the Weaver said. “I have applied appropriate antianxiety and serotonin-reuptake-inhibitor medications. Recommend immediate removal from the current environment and the commencement of acute stress disorder therapy ASAP, with particular emphasis on relaxation and cognitive restructuring.”

  He was only seven years old and already suffered from the same disorder that hardened adult soldiers endured. What a terrible thing.

  I went back to the kid and knelt beside him so that we were at eye level. There was somethin
g I wanted to confirm.

  “The Weaver told me it gave you medications. Did you take them?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “Tung, did you take the medications?”

  He finally met my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Maybe there was hope for Tung yet.

  I didn’t really know what else to talk about. My eyes drifted to the small ATLAS 5 he had clutched through it all. It struck me as odd that he’d carry the thing, given what a robot had done to his family, but I didn’t say anything.

  Tung followed my gaze. “Want to hold Mister Smidges?” He offered me the toy.

  I reached out but then changed my mind. I realized what an immense show of trust the kid was showing me: that toy, that little ATLAS mech, was all Tung had left in the world. “You hang on to him. You’ve got to protect him for me, okay?”

  Tung hugged the ATLAS to his chest and then he tilted his head toward the toy, as if listening. He nodded in exaggeration and looked up at me. “Mister Smidges says you’ve been hurt, too. He says you’ve lost people, like me.”

  I nodded warily. “He’s right.”

  “Did you love them? The people you lost?”

  I stared at the kid. Anger, sadness, resentment, all bubbled to the fore inside me. “Yes.” The word came out harsher than I intended.

  Forcing a smile onto my face, I got up to go. This conversation was getting uncomfortable.

  “You killed many Yaoguai for me out there, like you promised?” the child asked.

  I felt my smile drop. “Yes,” I lied. I hadn’t killed a single Phant. The things couldn’t be killed, as far as I knew. Though he might have meant the combat robots possessed by them, and if so, then I spoke the truth—I’d brought down hundreds today.

  “And what about the Mara?”

  That was supposed to mean crabs, I think. “Of course.”