by Isaac Hooke
“For an injured man, you sure fight well,” Facehopper said, panting.
I was breathing harder than the both of them, and I knew Facehopper was just stroking my ego. He wanted to encourage me to heal up and get the hell out of the ward.
I had an urgent thought. “Did anyone check the brain cases of the ATLAS 5s after our return? If any of the Phants—”
“We checked all ATLAS units. And the tanks. And the Centurions. Basically anything with an AI. We found nothing. But you do know the hangar scanners fleet-wide were modified to warn of condensation buildup anywhere inside the bays, right? Months ago.”
“Oh yeah.” I’d forgotten about that. Technology always moved fast, and if you didn’t pay attention you were left behind. “We really need to build that tech into the ATLAS units.”
“We do indeed.”
Dyson wheeled his IV over to join our little group.
Facehopper gave him a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“No, sir,” Dyson said. “Just getting in my daily PT, sir.”
Facehopper laughed. “If you call that PT, you’ve got some serious injuries, mate. That or you’ve grown soft.”
“The latter, sir. I’m a big softie.”
Facehopper chuckled again. “Ever the comedian.”
Dyson took another step, then flinched, grabbing at his chest.
Tahoe slid forward to help, but Dyson waved him off.
“Sir,” Dyson said to Facehopper. “May I ask the sit-rep?” Situational report.
Facehopper frowned. “You may not. You don’t have to worry about anything except healing up right now, mate.”
“You don’t understand,” Dyson said. “Not knowing is worse than anything else. I can’t heal, not when my mind is preoccupied with what happened down there. I have to know: How many men did we lose? And did any MOTHs die?”
Facehopper shot another surreptitious glance at the Marines, who feigned sleep and disinterest but likely were listening attentively. He spoke quietly. “Hope we get clearance to turn on our Implants soon. Voice communication is so . . . insecure, despite what the Chief believes. You want the sit-rep? Fine. The gist of it is, we lost half the battalion. That’s right. Two hundred fifty men dead. And more than half of the robot support troops were captured. ATLAS 5s, Centurions, Equestrians. Raptors. You name it. Wasn’t pretty.
“There were no casualties to report in Alfa or Bravo platoon, thankfully. You two were the only MOTHs seriously injured. Tahoe had some minor internal bleeding, and Chief Bourbonjack, Snakeoil, and Meyers had a few flesh wounds, but the Weavers fixed them up hours ago.
“As for the situation in orbit, the Gerald R. Ford and escorts managed to disable the entire SK flotilla that attacked during the drop. I don’t know how the Ford kept from being boarded, given how hot things were out there before we left. But the supercarrier pulled through.
“The rest of the fleet wasn’t so lucky. The remaining allied carriers tasked with engaging the Skull Ship were destroyed. To the last vessel. Some were boarded by Phants, but the crews valiantly refused to allow their ships to be taken, and chose instead to detonate their reactor cores.”
“They’re all dead?” Dyson said in stunned disbelief. “No survivors? But some of them were supercarriers like our own. With over five-thousand crew each.”
“Keep it down,” Facehopper hissed. “We need you to be strong now, caterpillar, of all times. It’s what we trained you for. You thought Trial Week was hard? Real life, real missions, losing real friends, losing real ships. That’s hard. That’s a true test of your mettle. You think you can handle the real world? Do you, mate?”
Dyson’s features hardened. “Yes, sir. I can, sir.”
Dyson glanced at me and I put on a brave face, but the truth was, I was stunned too. Twenty carriers wiped out, just like that. The losses were staggering. I wasn’t naive enough to believe the vessels we’d sent against the Skull Ship had succeeded, but I’d hoped most of them had escaped. The defeat was a crushing blow, one that only further hammered home the point: How could we hope to take down or capture an alien starship that was a quarter the size of a moon?
“I think it’s time for Dyson’s naming,” Tahoe said.
Facehopper grinned, though it seemed a bit forced. “Why yes. I believe you’re right, mate.” He glanced at Dyson. “You’ve been properly blooded. Are you ready for your callsign?”
I felt a wave of resignation for some reason, but I managed to stifle it. I told myself Dyson was a good man. That he deserved a callsign. But a part of me couldn’t let go of the fact I resented his being here.
Alejandro should be the one standing beside me. Not this impostor.
I shut my eyes. It wasn’t Dyson’s fault. None of this was.
It was mine.
All mine.
I opened my eyes, sighing internally.
Dyson seemed appropriately unhappy by Facehopper’s statement, and that lessened my resentment toward him.
“I don’t know, sir,” Dyson said. “I thought I’d be thrilled when my naming day came. Instead, I feel . . . I don’t know, like this is wrong somehow. Why should I be rewarded a callsign when so many good men died out there? I don’t deserve this.”
“That you feel this way is exactly why you deserve it,” Facehopper said. “You’re one of us now.”
Dyson looked down, and I thought he was going to refuse again. “I have a request, sir,” he said instead.
Facehopper lifted an eyebrow.
“May I specify my own callsign?”
“No,” Facehopper answered immediately. I had the impression he planned to answer in the negative no matter what Dyson asked.
“But I’ve had a name in mind for the past six months, sir. And when you hear it, I think you’ll agree that it has to be my callsign.”
“This is highly unusual,” Facehopper said. “A caterpillar choosing his own callsign? It’s just not done. But I’ll humor you. What name do you want?”
“I’m the kind of guy who embraces whatever situation he finds himself in, sir. You throw me in a sewer pipe, I’ll swim through the feces to complete the mission. You throw me in a vat of piss, I’ll dive to the bottom to plant the explosive. You—”
“Okay, enough examples,” Facehopper said, wrinkling his nose. “That’s pushing the limits of my patience, not to mention good taste. Get to the point.”
“Well, my point is, when someone gives me a name, any name, I’ll embrace it, just like I would any other situation, and wrap it around myself, and make it my own. That way no one can harm me with that name, because it has no power over me whatsoever.”
“I’m not really sure what the bloody hell you’re getting at, mate, but please enlighten me, and quickly. What name do you want?”
“Caterpillar, sir,” Dyson said.
Facehopper stared at him incredulously, then erupted in uproarious laughter. “Caterpillar!” He fell to his knees, just cracking up. “He wants to be called Caterpillar!”
Dyson laughed along with us.
Facehopper finally recovered, and pulled himself upright. “That was classic. You’re a regular comedian, Dyson. I almost want to do it—name you Caterpillar—just to make fun of you for the rest of your days. But I can’t bring myself. We’re not like some other military branches, where the callsign is a mockery of the individual in question. For us, it’s always been an honor. I have a better name in mind for you. Much more appropriate to your personality. What do you think of Hijak?”
Dyson’s face screwed up. “Hijak? Why Hijak?”
“I heard about how you hijacked the Marine’s ATLAS 5, mate.”
Dyson raised his palms defensively. “Hey, I really thought the Phant had gone inside.”
“Wait,” I said. “What happened?”
Facehopper glanced at me. “During the battle
, when those Phants were possessing mechs left and right, Dyson here tells an ATLAS pilot that he swears he saw a Phant drift inside. The Marine ejects, and Dyson goes up to the abandoned mech and hoists himself inside, taking over.”
“Hey.” Dyson shook his head. “Like I said, I really thought a Phant entered his mech. But when I checked the brain case through the crack between the cockpit hatch and hull, I saw nothing. So of course I took the mech.”
Facehopper chuckled. “Of course. So there’s that, and I also heard about the kills you hijacked from Bender. So there we have it. Hijak: if you don’t watch yourself around him, he’ll hijack your kills, and your mech.”
“Hijak.” Tahoe nodded, pursing his lips. “I kind of like it.”
Facehopper glanced at me. “Rage?”
I smiled and ruffled Dyson’s hair, which he obviously hated, judging from the glare. “Hijak it is.”
Alfa platoon assembled in the briefing room one week later.
A week of waiting, for most of us. A week of recuperating, for others.
An air of excitement suffused our ranks. We were finally going to do something.
Namely, our jobs.
I flexed my replaced hand. I’d been practicing almost all day, every day, with the stun pen. I could move most of the arm through the expected range of motions, though mobility wasn’t entirely restored to all my fingers yet. I could bend my trigger finger precisely, however, and that’s all I really needed to do to be operational.
The entry door irised open and Lieutenant Commander Braggs marched inside. All chatter faded away. As usual, I felt instantly intimidated by his sheer towering size. His hard features seemed even harder today, if that was possible, and I saw deep lines marking out the angular planes of his face.
“Alfa platoon,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs said. “Lieutenant Colonel Trowell sends his regards for the help you gave during Operation Crimson Pipeline. Especially those of you who bought time for the drop ships.” He gazed in turn at Dyson, Bender, and me. “News from above has trickled to my ears. There’s the possibility a few of you may be getting medals, and I hope—”
“You can take the medals and shove ’em up the Brass’s ass,” Bender said. “I don’t need to be no political pawn. Sir.”
The Lieutenant Commander grinned politely. “Interrupt me again, Bender. Please.”
Bender shifted uncomfortably.
“Yes,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs continued. “I know very well how much you all love your medals. I’ll be sure to relay your opinion, Bender, up the chain of command. Word for word.”
Bender gulped audibly. I was glad I’d kept my mouth shut, though I felt the same way about medals as Bender.
“Anyway,” Braggs continued, “the gesture from Command is appreciated, from my standpoint. The number of medals awarded a platoon can only increase its prestige, regardless of whether the actual platoon members decide to wear them or not. Though to be brutally honest, prestige isn’t going to matter all that much now. We’re at war, people, against an alien race none of us understands, facing technology far superior to our own. And so far, we’re losing.
“But I didn’t call you here to debate the merits of medals in times of war, or to bemoan our technological inferiority. I have a new direct action deployment for you. A mission that could lead to some critical intel.
“During Operation Crimson Pipeline, a small convoy of SKs from the battalion actually managed to penetrate the enemy line and reach the city. At least, that’s the official story. We believe the SKs landed another convoy on the far side of Shangde City, unbeknownst to the allies, but that’s beside the point. In any case, this second group didn’t do much better than the first, but they did reach the city proper. After a pitched battle, they fled, but not before making an interesting discovery.
“Distributed throughout the city, among the resin structures erected by the Burrowers and Workers, are robots and ATLAS mechs on patrol, kindly donated by the previous inhabitants. I’m sure some of our own units are joining them at this very moment. But there are also possessed Artificials, and a certain Artificial in particular.”
A retinal vid feed filled my vision, taken from the point of view of one of the SK soldiers. I saw a humanoid figure in the distance, moving amid a sea of crabs. Gunfire came in from the left. The distant figure glanced toward the source of the gunfire, and the crabs immediately surged that way, followed by the host slug.
The vid zoomed in. The figure was an Artificial, its face the spitting image of the SK President Guoping Qiu, the so-called “Paramount Leader.” Droplets of glowing purple condensation covered the base of its neck, above the camos. It was one of the more common models of Artificials manufactured by the SKs, because the actual Paramount Leader liked to make it easier for the population to adulate him. I think he’d issued an actual decree to the robot manufacturers stating that half the models sold to the distributers had to have his face on them.
The vid feed cut away.
“That Artificial is your High-Value Target,” the Lieutenant Commander said. “The intelligence boys at the Special Collection Service believe if we secure this Artificial, we can use it to communicate with the possessing Phant.”
“Once we retrieve the High-Value, what’s to stop the Phant from escaping?” Trace said. “I assume we’ll be given some sort of containment device?”
“You will indeed.” A three-dimensional, box-like schematic overlaid my vision. “Our SK allies have been in contact with the alien race for a little longer than we have, and they’ve come up with a glass cage equipped with an electromagnetic core specifically designed to bottle up Phants. They’ve used it to capture two of the entities so far. The design can be expanded to encompass larger subjects, specifically Artificials possessed by Phants.”
“Wait a second,” Ghost said. “If the SKs have captured Phants already, why not simply put an Artificial inside one of these existing holding cells, let the Phant possess it, and then interrogate the bastard?”
“The SKs tried that. Once possessed, the Artificial didn’t say a word. But the SKs have only captured blue Phants so far. You may have noticed in the vid, the High-Value Target is possessed by a purple one. The faster, quicker variety, which are far rarer.”
“Quicker and rarer doesn’t mean more intelligent,” Lui said. “What makes the Special Collection Service so certain a purple one will be more talkative than a blue one?”
The vid feed of the city returned, this time from another point of view. I thought it was from an HS3 drone.
The Artificial followed three meters behind an injured SK soldier. The man was on the ground, pulling himself forward with his arms alone, struggling to get away.
Crabs surrounded the two of them, but kept their distance.
The Artificial said in Korean-Chinese, “Do not fear, you are safe now. Join us.” He extended a hand as the SK soldier looked back. “Join us.”
The soldier glanced from side to side; his gaze was met by crabs wherever he looked. The SK reached toward his belt, pulled the pin on a grenade, and blew himself up.
The unharmed Artificial turned aside, shaking its head in disgust, and the crabs dispersed.
The vid feed terminated.
“Alfa platoon won’t be alone on this mission,” the Lieutenant Commander said. I thought he was going to reveal that Bravo platoon would be joining us, but instead he said, “You’ll be teaming up with an SK platoon—”
The groans cut him off.
He looked around incredulously. “Am I talking to a group of highly trained spec-op assets? Or a roomful of children? Show some discipline here.”
“The SKs will shoot us in the back!” Manic said. “Look what they did on the last operation: leaving us behind as bait while they dispatched a second convoy to the city.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Braggs said, “they left their o
wn boys behind as bait too, fighting at our side down there.” He pressed his lips together. “Access to the containment blueprint is contingent upon an SK presence. We need that blueprint. So put aside all feelings of hatred and mistrust, because the orders are clear. If you’re done whining . . .”
He ran his gaze across the room. “Your two platoons will be dropping separately. Once in position, you will provide bounding overwatch of one another. You’ll be going in light. No ATLAS mechs. No robot support troops. You’ll only get HS3s, and a very few at that. For one thing, we don’t want to make too great a show of force and scare the Artificial into hiding. For another, we don’t want to risk donating any more of our expensive technology to the enemy than we have to. Also, by sending in only one SK and one UC platoon, the theory is we’ll attract less attention.
“The SKs have agreed that our platoon will bring the High-Value back into orbit. The captured target will be transferred to the Cinquecento, a Franco-Italian frigate that survived Operation Crimson Pipeline. The FIs have always been a neutral party, and by giving the High-Value to them, we ensure all sides have equal access.”
“One thing,” Fret said. “How are we supposed to find the Artificial? It’s a big city.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Fret. The High-Value has chosen to inhabit a piece of human technology. And human technology is trackable. That’s why we’re giving you HS3 scouts.”
“What about the EM interference from the Phants and the Skull Ship?”
“Not a concern. Sure, because of the signal degradation you won’t learn the High-Value’s location until the HS3s return from their citywide sweep. But once you have the position, it becomes a quick grab-and-go operation. I’ll delve into more detail on the technical aspects during the prelaunch briefing.”
“This glass containment device we’re stowing the High-Value in,” I said. “I’m assuming it’s heavy? How are we planning to haul it through the city without support robots?”