ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2) (18 page)

The AIs of the mechs had been programmed to tag SKs as hostiles before the drop, so it made some sense that the ATLAS would have fired on him, even if it wasn’t possessed, especially with his blank public profile giving an inconclusive civilian status. Unfortunately, if it
was
possessed, the mech probably would have behaved the same way. And there was no way to determine if a Phant possessed a mech by mere sight alone, because the large size of the ATLAS occluded the alien vapor.

The only way I’d know for certain was by approaching the mech.

If it fired at me, then it was possessed. I died.

If it did not fire, then it wasn’t possessed. I lived.

There were other benefits to having a working ATLAS 5 other than oxygen, so trying to obtain the mech would be worth it, despite the risk.

“How far?” I said.

“Six hours.”

“Share the location marker with me.”

When the sharing request came up, I accepted, and a new waypoint appeared on my HUD map along with fresh map data.

I plotted a course to the provided waypoint, and saw that Fan was right. Assuming the data he sent me was accurate, and not modified to deceive me, if we kept up a good pace we should reach the mech in six hours.

Still, I had only eight hours of oxygen left on the bailout cylinder. That would be cutting it mighty close. If the mech wasn’t possessed, I should be able to enter the cockpit and link my life-support system to the ATLAS 5’s, assuming it actually had any O
₂
left. There was a chance the AI of the mech would refuse because I wasn’t provisioned to operate it, but I figured the chance was small. Besides, there were certain directives all UC AIs had to follow in regards to the preservation of human life.

On the other hand, if the ATLAS 5
was
possessed, then I had no chance whatsoever.

I tried not to think about that.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go to the ATLAS mech. But if we don’t reach it after six hours, I’m taking your main cylinder. Seems like a fair trade to me.”

If it came to it, I wouldn’t actually take Fan’s oxygen and let him die just so I could live. But I wanted him to think I would.

Fan pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “It is fair.” A playful glint came to his eyes. “When we find the mech, we will have celebration sex?”

I rolled my eyes, and sat back as he finished carving the meat from the hybear. I kept the rifle trained on him at all times.

This was going to be a long day.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rade

T
he mass of glowing liquid continued to flow up the sinkhole, toward the surface. The alien entities were all the same blue color, and packed so close together I couldn’t tell where one Phant ended and another began. That was good in a way, because by grouping together like that, the alien liquid made for an easy target. Not that it really mattered, because bullets and grenades didn’t harm Phants.

Although, I hadn’t tried flame yet . . .

I swapped my Gat for an incendiary thrower and loosed flaming streams of jellied gasoline into the glowing mass.

The stuff worked great, adhering to the entities and sheathing them in flames that burned all the fiercer thanks to the oxygen-rich atmosphere.

Unfortunately, all I did was convert the alien beings into mist form. Now instead of a river of Phants, I faced a living, gaseous wall of them.

Nicely done, Rade.

“Facehopper, did you hear what I said?” I sent over the comm. “There’s an army of Phants coming out of the hole. We have to get out of here!”

“I’m on the horn with the Chief,” Facehopper sent back. “Bourbonjack is trying to convince the Lieutenant Colonel to pull the battalion back. The Lieutenant Colonel’s not listening, apparently.”

“Wonderful.”

A bunch of the newly vaporous Phants veered toward me. I wasn’t planning on letting them possess my mech, so I spun around to make the return trek to my unit.

“Okay, looks like they’re going to attempt to close the sinkhole with an air strike,” Facehopper sent. “Rage, you better get out of there. As in,
now
!”

“I already tried incendiaries. I wouldn’t recommend any further—” I was cut off by the abrupt roar of shuttles passing overhead.

“Uh . . .” I activated my horizontal jets at full burn as cluster bombs fell all around me. Some were aimed for the massive slugs, others for the sinkhole. Either way, this whole area was about to go to hell.

I couldn’t get away fast enough. The explosion hurled me violently forward, and the temperature rose by at least thirty degrees in the cockpit. I felt the heat through my jumpsuit and the liquid-cooled undergarment I wore.

My mech rolled along the hard black surface, and I finally came to a halt when I smashed into an amtrac at the edge of the convoy.

I clambered groggily to my feet. My forehead was steeped in sweat, and perspiration oozed down my ribs.

The thick cord of a crab was tangled around my thigh. I must have collided with it at some point during my impromptu flight.

The crab connected to that cord got up beside me, and moved just as lethargically.

I aimed my Gatling at its cord and fired. The taut umbilical broke away like an elastic stretched beyond breaking, and the crab toppled over. I stepped free of the cord to grind one of the crab’s many heads into the shale. It felt somehow satisfying watching that black brain tissue ooze from either side of my steel foot.

I surveyed the area, getting my bearings, assessing the impact of the latest air strike.

Two of the behemoths sustained massive hemorrhaging along their uppermost flanks; the skin was ragged and uneven there, and exposed muscle glistened with black, oozing blood. Even so, while the behemoths appeared momentarily stunned, I knew they were otherwise very much still in the fight.

The third slug, meanwhile, had faded out, and was only now returning to this world, having avoided the air strike entirely.

Roughly a hundred crabs were still connected to the three of them, and these rose too, shaking off the daze caused by the shockwave; they seemed ready to resume the attack.

Among the enemy, the possessed robots were the quickest to recover. Most were already back on their feet, shooting at whatever targets pleased them.

The soldiers and unpossessed support robots on our side had pulled back, maintaining fire the whole time.

As for the sinkhole, it remained open. Maybe it had collapsed deeper inside, but I wasn’t about to go back and check. I didn’t see any Phants, so maybe we got lucky and the sinkhole had indeed caved at some point along its length. Maybe the alien entities were trapped.

Except you couldn’t trap a Phant. I’d seen those things seep right through metal. Something as simple as a collapse wasn’t going to stop them.

And then a few seconds later I realized why I hadn’t seen the Phants.

It was because they weren’t in the sinkhole anymore.

All around me, right in the middle of the convoy, Phants began to descend from the sky, where the cluster bomb had apparently displaced them. Some reliquefied before reaching the surface, and a glowing rain descended in places, possessing any robots it struck and incinerating any men.

Other Phants reached the surface while still in vapor form, and became liquid shortly thereafter.

I was lucky, because none of them touched my mech.

So far.

Either way, it was just mayhem around me. Sheer mayhem. Marines were dying, robots turning, and all the while crabs and possessed robots cut a swathe of destruction through the ranks.

“Facehopper!” I said into the comm, weaving between the liquefying mists and allied vehicles, trying to reach my unit.

“Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Charlie Foxtrot,’ doesn’t it, mate?” Facehopper sent, using the euphemism for clusterfuck. He switched to the squad-level comm. “All units under my command, fall back to the insert site. Save as many of your brothers as you can. I repeat, fall back to the insert site and save as many as you can.”

“No more air strikes,” someone shrieked over the global comm. “I repeat, no more air strikes!” A name at the bottom of my HUD indicated the speaker as Lieutenant Colonel Trowell.

“Uh, sir, you’re broadcasting battalion-wide,” someone else transmitted.

I shook my head. Another battalion led by an idiot.

Around me, more ATLAS mechs and robot support troops began turning against us. Gunfire went off on all sides.

The convoy was in full retreat, otherwise known as a “tactical retrograde,” because the military never retreats. Those amtracs still operational sped away. Gunners fired from the turrets. Soldiers in jumpsuits ran between them. I saw more than a few fleeing men fall from gunfire, or to a crab. I even saw two ATLAS 5s founder. I checked the vitals on each of the pilots with my aReal. Pitch black.

I spotted Facehopper on the HUD, and weaved through the wreckage toward him. As I ran, I did my best to take down any crabs that entered my sight line, and to shield my brothers from gunfire.

Facehopper was on his feet, as was Tahoe beside him. Tahoe glanced my way and let off a quick burst of machine-gun fire at something just behind me.

I continued running, trusting Tahoe’s accuracy completely, knowing that if it was something he couldn’t handle, he’d let me know.

“Thanks, Tahoe,” I sent him.

“Pick up the pace, Rade,” he transmitted. “Some nasty things behind you.”

A missile alarm went off in my cockpit.

I activated my Trench Coat and immediately dropped. Seventeen pieces of metal burst from Dragonfly’s upper back and prematurely detonated the two missiles aimed at me. After the shockwave passed, I crawled to one knee, pivoting around.

An ATLAS 6 was bearing down on me from thirty meters away. It was clearly an SK variant, judging from the Chinese characters spray painted on the chest piece:
, which meant Death, according to my aReal.

The ATLAS 6 model was so new that the UC was still evaluating it. The SKs were rumored to have made ATLAS 6 purchases already, and I guessed I was witnessing proof of those purchases. I recognized the expanded weapon and ammunition slots from pictures leaked on the Net. Disposable ballistic shielding covered the chest piece. On the shoulders, mini-rotors provided extra lift during jumps. It stood roughly twice as tall as the model 5, and loomed over my mech.

Retail price was thirty billion bitcoins, or ten times the cost of the previous model.

Never thought I’d feel outmanned, outgunned, and outclassed while riding an ATLAS 5, but there it was.

I made a mental note to have a little talk with the Chief when we got back. I wanted to know why the hell Big Navy hadn’t purchased us ATLAS 6s yet. Those models would’ve come in quite handy against the bigger crabs and slugs.

The ATLAS 6 opened fire at me with its Gatling gun.

I swung up my ballistic shield and hurried over to the abandoned remains of an upturned amtrac, taking cover.

In addition to the ATLAS 6, Phants homed in on my position. As did more robots. And crabs. And slugs.

I loaded the serpent launcher into my right hand and peered past the edge of the amtrac.

The ATLAS 6 wasn’t there.

Where—

A shadow blocked out the sun.

I instinctively launched my front-facing jets, hurtling Dragonfly backward.

That action saved me, because bright threads of Gatling fire rained down on my previous position from the sky. Those threads would have torn into Dragonfly’s head, and taken out my vision sensors. The high-energy bullets likely would’ve continued right on downward, drilling straight through my unshielded cockpit and into my own head.

The ATLAS 6 slammed onto the edge of the upturned amtrac, landing on one knee.

Jets still firing, I was about ten meters away now, and fired off three serpents.

The possessed ATLAS 6 responded with its own Trench Coat and dove behind the amtrac. Two of my missiles flew wide, the third was destroyed by a fragment from the Trench Coat.

This Phant knew what it was doing.

I was still thrusting backward courtesy of my front-facing jets. I hadn’t been paying attention to my HUD map, and rammed into an out-of-commission amtrac.

I shut off my forward jets and dropped the short distance to the ground. I was on the outer perimeter of the area formerly occupied by the convoy. Out of range of the Phants, but not the guns.

I hurried around to the other side of the amtrac, taking cover. I peered past the edge.

I’d lost sight of the damned ATLAS 6 again. It couldn’t have been part of the original convoy, because I would have seen its location on my HUD map, marked out as a “friendly.” It must have been on the moon before we got here. That meant it may have been possessed weeks ago, which would explain the skill of its Phant pilot.

I glanced skyward. Nope, the ATLAS 6 wasn’t coming at me from that vector again. It could be anywhere then.

Behind me, the battered remnants of the convoy were in full flight, the amtracs, tanks, soldiers, and mechs well on their way down the plain. The trailing units were about twenty meters away from me, according to my HUD. That was a gap I could readily close. Assuming, of course, I wasn’t mistaken for an enemy unit by my own guys.

Holding my ballistic shield behind me, I got up and sprinted like hell toward the retreating convoy.

Tahoe and Facehopper were there, thirty meters ahead, laying down suppressive fire.

They’d waited for me.

The shale exploded as gunfire from the enemy line struck all around. Rockets went off.

Tahoe was down on one knee, and he fired a Carl Gustav at a target behind me.

Facehopper helped him reload, and Tahoe fired again.