Atlas (17 page)

"Rade."

"Oh yeah. Rade." Manic nodded. "Rade's an interesting name. Galaal, I see. Ah, you immigrated. Illegally."

"Come on Manic, you know it's rude to read someone's personnel file when they're in the same room as you," Facehopper said. "Better to do it in private." He winked at me.

That was one feature of these military aReals we had in our heads. You could go beyond the public profile associated with a given embedded Id and get someone's full governmental record, assuming you had the necessary rank and security classification. I pulled up the list of Ids in the room, and focused on the one associated with Manic. His public record appeared before my eyes. I delved deeper.

Entered MOTH training at age 17.

Mediocre PT scores.

Mediocre swim scores.

Mediocre spacewalking scores.

Outstanding ATLAS scores.

I compared his ATLAS aptitude scores with mine, and I edged him out, but just barely. Out of curiosity I checked Lui's and Bomb's. Again, my scores were slightly higher.

"Uh uh ah," Manic said. "I've set up a trigger, so I know when someone accesses my full record. You see this?" He tapped the moth-shaped port-wine stain on his temple. "That's right, I'm a MOTH. Knew I'd be one since I was a kid. You can't pull a fast one on me." He leaned forward with a sour look on his face, and I thought he was going to stand up and hit me.

Then he was all smiles again. "But I actually don't mind. I scope out the full record of every caterpillar who comes my way, to see how they measure up and all, so feel free to scope me right back. Though I prefer when chicks scope me out, if you catch my drift. Speaking of chicks, you coming out for beers later? We know this place, got the best hops in town. And chicks too. You're going to love it. Oh, unless you have a squeeze already? Well if you do, bring her. We don't mind. We love girls. Especially strippers. We wouldn't touch your girl if you brought her along of course. Well, unless she was hot. But even then we'd ask for permission first. From her. And what about you guys?" He spun toward Alejandro and Tahoe. "You got some chicks to bring? If you don't I'll introduce you to some tonight. I'm big at opening chicks. I'm the one who gets half the guys laid around here. Did you know most of the guys on the platoon are really shy? Why, I once—"

"All right mate," Facehopper rested a hand on his shoulder. "I want to introduce the caterpillars to the rest of the platoon sometime this year." He turned toward me. "I guess you can see why his callsign is
Manic
. His frenetic energy translates really well on the battlefield, though."

Next up were Snakeoil and Fret.

"Meet our commos. These guys carry rucksacks full of communications equipment into battle. This in addition to the usual weapon and ammunition loadout. Each pack contains the equivalent of an InterPlaNet node, so we'll always be in touch with HQ no matter if we're in the heart of the jungle or the farthest reaches of space. Fret's the tall guy who looks like a giraffe."

I reached up to shake his hand. Fret towered over me, at six feet five inches. His forearms weren't big, but they were definitely corded.

"Snakeoil's the shorter guy," Facehopper said. "Kind of looks like a cross between a midget and a bear."

Snakeoil shook my hand. Though his arms were the biggest I'd seen on a MOTH so far, his grip was also the gentlest. "Hey," Snakeoil said.

I noticed a small puckered scar beneath his right cheek.

"Snakeoil took a bullet in the face on his first deployment. Came out just under his ear. He got up again and kept right on fighting. He ended up commandeering an ATLAS mech, and fought off an entire company of insurgents to save the rest of us. Most heroic thing I've ever seen. He's not wearing it now, but he was awarded the Navy Cross for combat heroism by the Commander-in-Chief."
1

Snakeoil seemed embarrassed. "Shucks. Only doing my job. Y'all would have done the same thing for me any day of the week. Definitely not something worth a medal. All I can say is I'm proud to have you as my commanding officer, Facehopper."

The leading petty officer nodded. "Not as proud as I and the Teams are to have you."

In the next berth, we met Trace and Ghost. "These guys are our snipers. Ghost is the one who looks like a pale demon, and Trace is the mean-looking East Indian. Trace can take out a target at five klicks with ninety percent accuracy. What do you think of that?"

I nodded my head. "Impressive."

"You may or may not remember him from training. He often helps out with the Combat Resiliency Qualification."

"I do," I said. "He was the one who shot me."

Trace broke into a grin. "I shoot
only the best."

His movements were as calm and self-assured as ever. Facehopper had said he was East Indian, and I believed it from his darker complexion. I checked his profile and saw that he hailed from Bengal.

Trace pursed his lips. "You got fifty percent accuracy at a range of five klicks in training?" he said, obviously viewing my own profile. "That's nothing to scoff at. I bet you're going to be platoon sniper for your first few deployments."

"Thank you sir." Though I really wanted to be an ATLAS pilot.

"Ghost here, in addition to sniping, is our Interrogator. I'm sure you can guess why."

Ghost bowed his head and touched the tip of his navy cap in greeting. He was a tall, warrior albino, and with his white hair, red eyes and pale face, he reminded me of an elf from some fantasy or science fiction novel. An evil elf at that. I definitely wouldn't want to be interrogated by him.

Facehopper led us on, and when we entered an office area I knew we'd moved on to the upper echelon of the platoon. I felt a surge of trepidation, as I always did when I met the people who were ultimately responsible for the direction my life took.

We entered one of the smaller offices. The UC flag hung limply in the background. On the far bulkhead, between several framed certificates and degrees was the portrait of a sailor from old times, dressed in a bright blue uniform and white navy cap. An empty bottle of whiskey sat on the desk. There was a starship model inside, dreadnought class. Beside the bottle were three figurines. The first figurine was obviously old, judging from the faded paint, and it depicted a sailor with ridiculously huge forearms crushing a can labeled 'spinach.' The second figurine was of a panting dog in an orange life vest. The last figurine depicted a realistic-looking MOTH, complete with jumpsuit, jetpack, and combat rifle.

Behind the desk sat a grizzled man, his dark, tilted eyes seeming to judge my every movement. The skin of his face was weatherworn, and he had a hooked beak of a nose above his thick, gray-specked mustache.

"This is Chief Bourbonjack," Facehopper said. "Our fearless leader. Got more body parts shot off than anyone I've ever met, and he's been awarded more medals than most admirals. He should be a Navy Captain by now, but the Chief has forever refused advancement. Didn't want to go back to school I guess. Or just likes to fight."

The serious expression left the Chief's face, and he broke into a grin. "Right on both accounts!" Chief Bourbonjack got up and gave me a combination handshake and one-armed hug. "Greetings!" He shook my palm warmly. A good, solid grip. The hand felt almost real, but the texture was slightly off, a little like corrugated cardboard. The Chief must've seen the expression on my face, because he shrugged. "That's right. 3D bio-printed! Weren't you listening? I've had more body parts shot off than most admirals. I'm almost an Artificial. Ha!"

"If they could build an Artificial with the character of this man, we'd be out of a job," Facehopper said.

"Well thank you, Leading Brown-nose Officer!" He gave Facehopper a mocking nod. "Anyway, glad to have you boys joining Alfa. The detailer sent your profiles a few weeks ago and I just knew we had to keep you three together. When I find a group of men that work well with each other, I don't see the point in separating them. Makes them less effective, in my experience."

"Thank you, sir," I said.

Chief Bourbonjack's gaze snapped to my face. "So you're the spokesman?"

"Uh, I guess so, sir."

"Good. Every group has a spokesman. Lets me know who I should talk to when I need something, and who I should chew out when that something doesn't get done. I'm not sure if Facehopper here has gone over any of the rules, but all I care about is that you do your time,
on time
. While not on deployment, you'll be expected to show up at 0600 each morning, and stay until 1800 at night. Most of us go home at the end of the day. The three of you have no dependents living in the country, so it's up to you if you want to live in the barracks or not. If you live off base, you'll collect BAH." Basic Allowance for Housing. "You'll still have a barracks berth of course, but you just won't stay overnight. Anyway, Facehopper here is hopping on his toes, so I can see he's eager to introduce you to the Lieutenant Commander."

"Among other things," Facehopper said.

"All right then, get on with it." The Chief folded his hands on his chest. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you boys real soon!"

Facehopper led the three of us into an adjacent office. "And finally, I present to you Lieutenant Commander Braggs, the officer responsible for Alfa and Bravo platoons."

The Lieutenant Commander reminded me of a younger version of Chief Bourbonjack. He was about fifteen years older than me, but there wasn't an inkling of gray in his brown hair. His face was all hard planes, and though he wore a long-sleeved service jacket, I could tell from the way he moved that he still had the body of an athlete despite his rank.

The Lieutenant Commander stood up and towered over all of us. He was just as tall as Fret. He reached over the desk and shook my hand. His grip was in the medium range of the MOTHs I'd met so far today, not overly hard, but just enough to give the bones of my fingers a good grinding.

When he had shaken each of our hands, he sat back down. "Have a seat."

We sat down in the three empty chairs that were conveniently arrayed in front of the desk.

The Commander's office was positively spartan compared to Chief Bourbonjack's. Other than the UC flag situated near the far bulkhead, all the Lieutenant Commander had on his desk was a portrait, facing outward, presumably of his wife and son. People who spent a lot of time in their Implants didn't really have much use for material objects, I supposed. Or maybe he just didn't use his office very much.

"Mr. Galaal, Mr. Eaglehide, Mr.
Mondego. The Teams are an elite unit, the best the Navy or even the entire military has to offer. Sure, other branches have ATLAS mechs and support robots and all the other wonderful assets that go along with a platoon of course, but their training doesn't hold a stick to our own. Which is why my expectations for you three run so very high. However, don't let those expectations interfere with your duty. I'm all for a little friendly competition, but remember, we're brothers here. Most of us have been through hell and back together. The life of your brothers comes first, above everything else, except maybe the mission objective. We'd all fall on a grenade to save the man beside us. Heck,
I'd
fall on a grenade. That sense of brotherhood makes us who we are.

"We've got an almost insanely competitive drive within us, a drive tempered with the care we feel for our brothers, a drive honed by the endless hours of training. We've taken that drive, and used it to forge ourselves into some of the most ferocious, unstoppable fighters in the galaxy. Most of us have, anyway. Whether or not you display
that drive remains to be seen."

He glanced at Facehopper. "Could you grab the utility tape, LPO? And tell the Chief to bring in some of that excellent bourbon of his."

"Now, sir?"

"Well, why not? I figured I might as well get my turn in while I have some time."

"Yes sir." Facehopper left.

Smiling widely, Chief Bourbonjack came in and set down three shot glasses on the desk. He filled them with bourbon.

"Drink up, boys," the Chief said. "This here is the best whiskey Bourbon County has to offer."

"What about you guys?" I said, feeling a tad guilty. Not to mention suspicious.

"Ha!" Chief Bourbonjack said. "We're on duty!"

"But aren't we—"

"Drink!" The Chief got in my face. "Before I ram the drink, shot glass and all, down your freakin' throat!"

All three of us took the shots.

"What's this?" the Chief said to Tahoe. "You're sipping your shot?
Sipping?
"

Tahoe quickly downed the rest of his glass.

I had this queasy feeling in my stomach, and not just from the liqueur. It felt like I'd dropped back in time and was in First Phase all over again.

The Chief refilled our glasses. "Again."

We ended up having six rounds each, and by then I was really plastered. Never could hold my liqueur.

Facehopper finally came back and proceeded to tape the three of us to the chairs.

"What's going on, sir?" I said, my voice slurring.

But I knew.

We were being hazed.

Facehopper unbuttoned my shirt.