ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2)

by Isaac Hooke

  “I don’t see the rack. Where—”

  A sound came from behind the mech, like metal shuddering aside. I supposed another compartment had just opened up.

  I went to the back of the mech and sure enough discovered a recess behind its leg. Within, an empty rack awaited my weapon. I stowed the SK rifle in the rack, placing all the ammunition I’d taken from Fan on the provided shelf. There were already some grenades and ammunition rounds on the shelf, I noted.

  “Weapon stowed.” I stepped back.

  A panel irised closed, concealing the recess.

  I went to the front of the mech, climbed the leg rungs, stepped onto the open hatch, and swung myself inside the cockpit. I oriented my body so that I faced outward. I glanced into the crack between the hatch and the hull, peering at the brain case and confirming that it wasn’t surrounded by the glowing vapor of a Phant.

  The hatch closed.

  The inner shell of the cockpit pressed into me from all sides. I couldn’t see anything except the mech’s dark interior. Despite all my simulator hours, I was entirely unprepared for the sudden feeling of claustrophobia.

  I tried to pretend I was somewhere else. Astrogating a starship in the vast openness of space, maybe. Yes. I was in space now, not buried under three tonnes of metal.

  It didn’t work.

  I started hyperventilating.

  Battlehawk’s sensor arrays routed their audio and video feeds to my helmet, so that I viewed the world from the mech’s perspective.

  It didn’t help.

  “Switch me over to your internal O2 tanks, Battlehawk,” I gasped. Maybe I was running out of oxygen. That must be the problem.

  I heard a series of metallic clanks behind me as the feed valves of my oxygen canisters connected to the recharge lines of the mech; the ATLAS 5’s main O2 lines now fed directly into my jumpsuit’s life-support system.

  “Oxygen recharge initiated,” Battlehawk said.

  I was still hyperventilating.

  I had the presence of mind to check the O2 levels of Battlehawk’s tanks. They were nearly full. So oxygen wasn’t the problem.

  I had to stop breathing this way. Every moment of hyperventilation was a moment of wasted air. Besides, I couldn’t pilot the mech, not like this.

  I shouldn’t have felt this way. Life aboard a cramped starship certainly wasn’t for those who feared confined places. But this was different somehow. At least on a starship, I actually had room to move. Here, I was clamped in on all sides.

  You can get through this, Shaw. You have to.

  I closed my eyes and thought back to my days as a child on the farm. Picking apples, bringing them to the grinder, bottling the cider. The work was done entirely by hand, without robots. There was something soothing about leaving out the machine element and interacting directly with nature. You knew your own hands would never break down, or turn on you.

  In my mind’s eye, the farmland stretched to the horizon on all sides. Unhindered. No walls. No cocoons.

  My breathing stabilized.

  I opened my eyes.

  I pretended what I saw was the view from my own body. That I wasn’t trapped inside three tonnes of metal. It wasn’t so different from my own consciousness, I supposed, trapped within the flesh and blood of my body. Not so different at all.

  I waited a moment, taking long breaths. I could do this.

  I took a tentative step. It felt like I was moving my leg through deep water. I sensed the mech shift, and I knew the matching steel foot had moved with me. I glanced downward, and took another step, watching Battlehawk’s leg travel in sync with my own.

  But looking down was a mistake, because I nearly lost my balance.

  I flung out my arms to stabilize myself, and the mech’s arms moved in concert with my own. I managed to remain upright by having the mech grip the rock face beside me.

  I kept Battlehawk’s steel hand braced against the rock and took a few more exploratory steps. I proceeded forward slowly and carefully, and grew more confident with each step. The sensation of trudging through deep water subsided, and I removed Battlehawk’s hand from the wall.

  I was actually getting the hang of it. It was like I merely resided within an extra-large jumpsuit. Piloting three tonnes of metal wasn’t so bad, not at all. And I rather enjoyed it. I felt powerful. Invincible. Ready to take on an army of beasts. I probably could, now.

  I remembered all the stories Rade had told me; how he’d faced countless hordes of those crabs and slugs and just mowed them down. I’d thought he was exaggerating at the time, but I realized, inside a mech like this, I could probably kill a crab simply by stepping on it. The smaller ones, anyway.

  The endless, repetitive whir of servomotors reflected from the walls around me. Below, shards sometimes flew upward as my massive feet crunched into the shale underfoot. That’s right, I finally no longer thought of those feet as Battlehawk’s, but mine.

  I was Battlehawk, now. An ATLAS 5 mech. Designed for combat. Bred for dealing death. I was reborn as a being of steel, servomotors, rockets, and bullets. No one, not man, not hybear, not even beast, could defy me. I almost wished a sinkhole would open up right here, so I could prove myself.

  Then again, that probably wasn’t a good idea . . .

  Don’t fall for your own bull, Shaw.

  There was one thing I had to do before passing the bend and rejoining my companions.

  “Battlehawk, a few moments ago you fired on one of the non-native lifeforms of this planet,” I said.

  “SK bioweapon, class B, hyena-bear recombinant,” Battlehawk said. “Hostile.”

  “Well yes, I suppose they are, in general. But this lifeform is nonhostile. You are not, I repeat, not to fire upon him. His name is Queequeg, and he is my friend.”

  Battlehawk did not answer.

  “Battlehawk, give me your assurance that you won’t fire on Queequeg. He’s saved my life more times than I can remember. Battlehawk?”

  No answer.

  Sometimes it was a matter of wording the request the right way, because apparently certain keywords influenced the AI’s decision tree algorithm more than others. How did I do it in the simulator again? “Battlehawk, tag the previously encountered lifeform as nonhostile.”

  “Tagging previous lifeform as nonhostile,” the AI said.

  So that was it. “Thank you.”

  The bend proved a tight fit, and only with effort did I jam my new, larger body past the cramped walls. I inflicted several more dents in the arms, legs, and chest piece.

  Queequeg waited precisely where I’d left him, guarding Fan. The animal was looking right at me, his eyes big as saucers.

  Queequeg turned around and hightailed it out of the defile.

  “Queequeg, wait!” I said. “Battlehawk, broadcast my—”

  But Battlehawk was already loading the Gatlings into my hands.

  “Battlehawk, stand down, what are you doing? Battlehawk, I’m in control now! We agreed, remember?”

  Apparently I wasn’t, and we hadn’t.

  As Queequeg vanished beyond the entrance to the defile, Battlehawk trained its twin Gatling guns on Fan.

  Oh.

  The SK raised his palms in surrender, and backed away.

  “Target acquired,” Battlehawk said in its authoritative male voice. “Preparing to terminate.”

  “Stand down!” I said. “He is a friendly.”

  Battlehawk did not stand down.

  Knowing he could never reach the defile’s entrance in time, Fan fell to his knees and put his hands behind his head.

  Battlehawk, not me, never me, took a massive step forward.

  “Battlehawk!” I said. “He is unarmed. He is a friendly. A civilian! Stand down!”

  I frantically resisted the movements of the cocoon that wrapped me, but I was pinned, locked i
nside this steel body, just an observer, powerless to do anything. I would watch helplessly as Fan was gunned down.

  “Embedded ID profile inconclusive,” Battlehawk said.

  That’s right, Fan had wiped his public profile, and because he was SK, the mech couldn’t access Fan’s private profile. Assuming he even had one.

  “Facial recognition in progress,” Battlehawk continued. “Sino-Korean feature match. Correlating with NGI biometric database.” Military-grade UC AIs stored a local, apparently secure copy of the Next Generation Identification database, which contained the biometrics—facial features, fingerprints, retinal scans—of all UC citizens. “Target is not a UC citizen. Target queued for termination.”

  “Yes he’s SK, but he’s a civilian,” I pleaded.

  “Target queued for termination,” Battlehawk persisted.

  “No,” I said. “He’s a civilian. And he’s helping me. Battlehawk, if you kill him, you disobey your own programming to protect me. Because if he dies, I die. Battlehawk, do you understand? You can’t kill him. Battlehawk?” Then I remembered the magic words. “Battlehawk, tag the target as civilian.”

  A moment passed.

  “Tagging target as civilian.” The Gatlings folded away.

  I’d been pressing so hard against the inner cocoon that when the mech suddenly ceded control back to me, my arms almost slammed together.

  Fan slumped. He held his gloves to his face mask, and I thought he was trying to hide tears of relief.

  Honestly, I felt like crying too.

  But there was still the matter of Queequeg.

  “Queequeg?” I shouted.

  No response came from the edge of the defile.

  I didn’t want to approach and scare him further. I knew he was waiting out there somewhere beyond the defile. At least, I hoped he was.

  I was loath to leave the cockpit to retrieve Queequeg, not after all the work it had taken to convince Battlehawk to let me inside in the first place. Who knows? If I went out maybe Battlehawk would decide my updated O2 situation no longer warranted an emergency situation.

  I’d just have to find a way to convince Queequeg to obey me while I was still inside the mech.

  “Battlehawk, voice amplification, maximum.”

  “Voice amplification maximum,” Battlehawk repeated.

  “Queequeg?” I said.

  I winced as the close walls deflected the amplified syllables back at me.

  Fan slid his hands over his helmet, where his ears would have been were he not wearing a jumpsuit.

  I turned the voice amplification down a notch. “Queequeg?”

  Still no response.

  I supposed I’d have to risk leaving the mech after all, because I wasn’t going to continue without Queequeg. But if I ejected, and went to the animal, there was still the problem of introducing him to the ATLAS. This wouldn’t work if Queequeg ran away every time I boarded Battlehawk . . .

  I decided to try one last thing before I left the cockpit: a lullaby I sang to Queequeg shortly after I’d found him, when he was still an abandoned babe swathed in his mother’s umbilical. It was a lullaby my own mother had sung to me.

  “Tender one, sleep tonight. Sleep, because though the dark is near, the stars will always guide you.”

  Queequeg timidly poked his head around the far end of the defile.

  I continued the song. When I beckoned with one hand, the movement caused him to duck beyond the rim of the defile once more.

  I sang away.

  Queequeg’s head eventually appeared again.

  I beckoned—I had to get him used to seeing the mech move.

  Queequeg didn’t shirk this time. He just remained still, his eyes saucer-shaped, his ears and mane folded flat.

  I stopped singing for a moment and said, “Battlehawk, tag target as nonhostile.” Just in case.

  “Target already tagged as nonhostile.”

  I resumed the lullaby.

  Queequeg apparently screwed up his courage, because the animal finally approached. Very cautiously.

  I continued to beckon, but not too quickly. I didn’t want to make any sudden movements. I was humming the song now, letting Queequeg come near.

  Fan watched dumbfounded. I supposed all of this would appear somewhat ludicrous to a bystander. It wasn’t every day you saw an ATLAS mech humming a lullaby to a bioengineered bear-hyena hybrid. But hey, this was my pet we were talking about here, and I didn’t care if I embarrassed myself in front of Fan.

  Queequeg halted twenty paces from Battlehawk. He seemed like a small rabbit to me from up here.

  I ended the song.

  Queequeg abruptly crouched, baring his teeth and growling.

  I wondered if he thought I’d been devoured by the mech or something.

  “Queequeg, it’s me,” I said.

  The animal perked up immediately when he heard my voice, and his ears pricked. But then he growled again.

  “It’s all right Queequeg,” I said soothingly. “It’s me. Shaw.” I pointed slowly at myself. “Shaw.” I’d done this before when I’d first trained the animal all those months ago. He had to recognize the word and the gesture. He had to.

  Either Queequeg had indeed understood me, or he was too confused to do anything other than cock his head and stare at the ATLAS 5.

  I slowly knelt to one knee, and held out an open palm.

  “Come,” I said, gently. “Come.”

  Queequeg approached warily. When he reached my hand, he tentatively licked the outer edge of my giant finger.

  “That’s a good boy.” I carefully reached behind his neck, and scratched him with said finger.

  “So you have obtained your mech,” Fan said from where I’d left him beside the wall.

  Queequeg swung toward Fan and growled.

  The SK frowned, but I could see the alarm in his eyes. He actually feared the hybear more than the ATLAS. Amazing.

  “I got my mech.” I agreed, slowly pulling my hand away from Queequeg.

  “Do you trust me now?” Fan said.

  I glanced at the SK. He seemed so small and insignificant beside me. Less than a child. “Not really. But it looks like you get to keep your main cylinder after all.”

  He smiled sardonically. “Why, thank you, oh great mech pilot. But what about my rifle?”

  “What about it?”

  Fan crossed his arms. “You said you would give it back. When we reached the ATLAS.”

  “No I didn’t. Don’t put words in my mouth. The deal was, you’d get to keep your main oxygen cylinder.”

  Fan sighed profusely. “You are a crafty one, Shaw Chopra of the UC Navy. Let us return to my oxygen extractor, then. With your mech, we can move the device easily. We can take it with us to the next Forma chimney, where I will start work on your extractor.”

  I regarded him crossly, though of course he couldn’t see my expression. “So you’re dictating my actions now? You realize I’m the one up in the ATLAS 5, don’t you?” Though what he said wasn’t a bad idea. Taking his extractor to the next Forma pipe would save us a lot of time.

  “I only speak the truth, Shaw Chopra. We must do this. The oxygen tanks in your ATLAS will not last forever.”

  “They won’t,” I conceded.

  “See? You need me. Without me, no extractor. No extractor, no oxygen. Not in the long run.”

  I wondered once again how much I could truly trust him. I considered abandoning him right there. That was probably the best move. But my conscience wouldn’t let me.

  Besides, he was right. If I wanted to survive on this world in the long run, I still needed him to build me an oxygen extractor.

  He had wanted to stick together before. And I could see why he might want that even more now. With a mech at his side, he’d never have to fear the hybears or beasts of th
is world ever again.

  Maybe he planned to steal my ATLAS mech somehow. I wished him luck on that front, given how hard it had been for me to take control of Battlehawk in the first place, and I was actually UC.

  I stood to my full height, which had the unintended side effect of frightening Queequeg—my pet quickly moved to the defile wall, behind Fan, like he was using the SK as a shield.

  I edged past the two of them and continued forward at a comfortable pace, heading to the defile entrance. In moments I emerged into the valley beyond.

  I turned around.

  Fan was right behind me, but Queequeg kept his distance.

  “Come on, Queequeg,” I said.

  Queequeg approached to within five meters, but refused to come any closer. That was probably for the best, because I didn’t want to accidentally step on him—as an animal, Queequeg didn’t have any means of transmitting his position to my helmet aReal, so I had to keep track of him by sight.

  “How fast can you travel in that?” Fan said.

  “Fast. You won’t be able to match my speed. But here, let me show you a little UC innovation. Something we add to all our mechs.”

  I scooped him up.

  “Put me down!” Fan protested.

  I set him on my back, just behind my head, in the provided passenger seat.

  “Impressive.” Fan sounded sarcastic. “But I believe the Sino-Koreans employ this so-called innovation in our mechs as well.”

  “Buckle up and enjoy the ride.” I moved forward, feeling confident enough to switch to a moderate lope. My balance remained stable. So far so good.

  Queequeg easily kept pace, though he gave me a wide berth, staying twenty meters to my right.

  “Well, Queequeg?” I said. “Think you can keep up?”

  I upticked my speed, broke into an all-out sprint—

  And promptly fell flat on my face. I skidded across the surface, plowing a long furrow into the shale.

  Fan swore in Korean-Chinese behind me.

  I supposed I had some more practicing to do.