Atlas (36 page)

"Now's not the time for dawdling boys!" Chief Bourbonjack said.

The platoon sprinted forward.

Alejandro and I got there first and started crawling through the gap. The rest of the squad followed in twos.

"Never thought I'd be so glad to see the light of day in my life," Ghost said, wriggling through the gap just behind me.

Tahoe laughed beside him. "Coming from an albino, that means a lot."

I got through, stumbled to my feet, and hurried the final distance to the shaft with Alejandro right behind me.

"At least Mao left the rope," I said, grabbing onto the cord that was still dangling down. The sun's rays, scintillating with motes of dust, pierced the darkness around me.

I started shimmying up the ten meters to the surface. Though Alejandro was right behind me, the whole time I had this creepy sensation that one of those crabs was just below, snapping at my feet. The feeling spurred me on.

I was glad I was leading the way out, and only partially because I wanted to get away from those things down there.

You see, I didn't want anyone to take Hornet. Protocol dictated that when under threat, and the designated ATLAS operator was not present, anyone could jump into the pilot seat.

No way in hell I was going to let that happen.

When I finally pulled my body over the lip and into the full light of day, it felt like a massive weight lifted from my chest. I was free of that hellhole.

And best of all, my ATLAS was waiting for me right where I left it.

The bullet-riddled jumpsuit of Mao lay beside it: The mech had mowed him down, as per my last order.

Quid pro quo
,
I guess.

I resisted the urge to run straight for the mech, and instead turned around to help Alejandro over the edge of the shaft. Just then Snakeoil roared out of the pit, carrying Bomb in one arm and Lui the other, probably expending half his jetpack fuel in the process. Too bad he was the only one left who
had
a jetpack, having opted out because of his communications rucksack...

I glanced down. The rest of the platoon was on the rope. Lieutenant Commander Braggs brought up the bottom, right behind Chief Bourbonjack.

I could already see the multi-headed alien crabs snapping at the air below him. Alejandro let off some shots, taking out two of the things.

To my left, Snakeoil landed, releasing Bomb and Lui. The two of them glanced at the unoccupied mech.

That was my cue.

I hurried over to Hornet.

"Unlock!" I shouted. "Load weapon patterns seven and five!"

I leaped into the ATLAS as the cockpit opened and the limbs swapped out. The left hand became a serpent rocket launcher. The right a gatling gun.

The cockpit's elastic inner material pressed into my body, and I flinched at the sudden pain in my backside: I'd forgotten about the shrapnel embedded in my butt. Ah well. I was a MOTH. Pain was a house guest. Sometimes uninvited. Always tolerated.

The windowless cockpit sealed up. Without the Implant I couldn't interface with Hornet mentally—all weapons-related commands would have to be vocal. And control of the mech would be via the pressure sensors that lined the inner material of the cockpit rather than by intention, and that would feel like wading neck-deep in sludge
until I acclimated. As for my vision, while the helmet HUD was still disabled, the sight-routing mechanism utilized a secondary processor, so Hornet was still able to route what it saw onto my jumpsuit's facemask instead of my Implant.

"Gun in hand!"

The weapons swiveled so that the triggers were directly above my fingers. I walked toward the shaft.

Yup, without the Implant it definitely felt like I was wading through a bog. I fought for every step, but after a while I got used to it and the hindrance didn't seem so bad.

At the shaft, half the platoon was firing down, picking off crabs, covering the other half that still climbed.

My platoon brothers immediately made way for me.

Lieutenant Commander Braggs reached the halfway mark. Below him, the crabs had formed a body ladder, and the closest one snapped at his feet.

I fired my gatling at the alien ladder.

Every heard the phrase, mincemeat?

More crabs kept appearing at the bottom of the shaft, feeding my meat grinder. I was happy to show them what oblivion looked like.

Eventually the crabs got smart, and stopped coming.

I ceased firing.

Chief Bourbonjack was almost out of the shaft now, and the Lieutenant Commander was just behind him.

Two Phants appeared at the base of the shaft.

Feeling cocky, I fired off my gatling. A hundred holes appeared in the mists, and in moments the things had dispersed entirely.

All too easy.

Then the creatures started reforming.

Damn.

I fired again, in bursts, not giving the Phants a chance to coalesce, and taking out the crabs that had decided to show themselves. So far there was no sign of the giant slug those crabs were connected to. I guess it hadn't burrowed a passage through the waist-high gap in the blockage yet. Then again, it could probably just phase itself right through.

Alejandro and Facehopper helped the Lieutenant Commander from the shaft. He was the last one out.

"You think you can seal that opening Rage?" Chief Bourbonjack shouted.

"Absolutely."

I gave my brothers a couple of seconds to step back, then I unleashed hell into that shaft, expending rockets and ammo at the lower walls like there was no tomorrow. I switched my focus to the upper section, stepping back, slowly circling the shaft, glancing at my HUD map now and again to ensure I didn't step on anyone behind me.

The wooden frame that held the rope blew clean away under my assault, and the Geronium rocks around the rim fell inward. In moments all that was left of the shaft was a sunken crater sealed off from the rest of the world. Well, that and a plume of dust.

"Sealed!" I said.

I kept my gats trained on the opening, half-expecting the blue mist to seep through. Or for the crabs to smash their way out. Or for one of those slugs to phase-shift through the opening and rematerialize in full view.

Beside me, my platoon brothers stood in a circle around the crater, weapons aimed at the former shaft.

"
Mierda
!" Alejandro said finally. He seemed so small, standing there on the ground beside Hornet. "
Puta madre! Me cago en todo lo que se menea!
I shit on everything that moves! Shit shit shit."

He lowered his 9-mil. Others started to stand down around him.

"Hold..." Chief Bourbonjack said.

Those weapons went right back up.

We waited, just staring at the crater where the shaft used to be, watching the dust settle.

"Hold..." Chief Bourbonjack said.

A fragment of rock broke away near the tip of the crater I had made, and rolled down to the bottom.

"Back away, very cautiously," Chief Bourbonjack said.

We did, keeping our eyes trained on the crater the whole time. We convened about ten meters away.

"Sir, I still can't reach the ship," Snakeoil said. Like everyone else, he hadn't lowered his weapon, hadn't looked away from where the shaft used to be. "And I've lost contact with the MDV."

"Rage, see if you can reach either asset," Chief Bourbonjack said.

The wireless adhoc network built into the ATLAS 5s was a little stronger than the one that came with the jumpsuits and Implants, but definitely not as powerful as the InterPlaNet node Snakeoil carried around on his back. I doubted it would reach the ship, but the MDV
was only half a klick away and definitely in range.

"Ship comms," I said to Hornet.

Static.

"MDV comms."

Static.

Now I was getting worried.

"Chief. I get nothing on both lines."

"There's some kind of EM interference originating from orbit," Snakeoil said. "I can't place it."

"I don't remember those clouds being here on the way in," Tahoe said.

I followed Tahoe's gaze. Black clouds filled the sky behind us.

"Do you guys feel that?" Bomb said.

I couldn't feel anything, but I was up in a gyroscopically stabilized ATLAS.

I heard something, though. A distant rumbling.

We all turned our eyes toward the crater.

The rumbling became louder.

Now
I could feel the ground shaking.

"Fall back!" the Lieutenant Commander said. "To the MDV!" He led the way.

"I'll hold them off," I said.

Chief Bourbonjack stepped in front of me. "Rage, I can't allow—"

"Go, Chief. Trust me. I got this. Go."

"All right, son. But you better be right behind us."

He joined my platoon brothers, who were sprinting up the excavation site. Everyone had gone, now.

Wait, not everyone.

"Get out of here, Alejandro!" I said. "Go!"

"Rade. I can't let you stand alone. I've always been here for you. I can't—"

"I'm in an ATLAS 5! Go!"

He didn't move.

I softened my voice. "Alejandro. I promise you I'm not throwing my life away. I'll be right behind you. I swear I will. This isn't a last stand."

He seemed about to protest, but then he nodded and ran after the others. As the rumbling grew louder, I watched him weave his way between the mammoth dump trucks and hydraulic power shovels on his way to the top.

I swiveled back toward the crater—

The ground literally blew open in front of me.

Crabs exploded upward like a geyser, and fell down all around me.

The
creatures started attacking immediately.

They didn't look much different in the full light of day, their dark hearts beating visibly beneath their black, semi-translucent carapaces.
Their multiple heads twitched and jerked, mandibles swaying about, chomping at the air and the metallic skin of my mech.

I didn't use weapons to defend myself. There was no need. I simply splattered entire swaths of the things with every swing
and downward thrust of my arms. I crunched two or three underfoot with each step. I was an alien killing machine.

But for every one I killed, five more piled out of the shaft.

Relentlessly.

Endlessly.

An entire section of rock around the shaft collapsed then, and a slug rudely burrowed out, slamming its huge hunk of a body onto the ground just in front of me. This slug was not black like the others my platoon had encountered, but white-hot, with silver steam flowing from every exposed portion of its body. It was in rock-melting or "burrowing" mode, I guessed.

I still had a gatling loaded on my right arm, and I let loose, just hammering that slug. I arrested its forward motion entirely.

I loaded the second gatling into my other arm, and fired with both.

I walked forward, whaling on the slug's body with my 6,000 rounds per minute weaponry, devastating any crabs that dared cross my path. The white-hot slug was retreating, shrinking from my onslaught, pieces of its steaming body just breaking off. That white skin was quickly turning black where my bullets struck.

"You evil maggot from hell!" I yelled. "You stinking mass of white pus! Go back to the pit you came from!"

It started to phase out.

"Oh no you don't!"

I swiveled serpent rockets into my right hand.

I launched one.

Two.

Three.

Huge chunks of flesh broke away, and black steam (blood?) filled the air.

Finally, the slug fell, and its dead body dematerialized.

I heard a high-pitched whistle, and realized that the gatling in my left hand was still rotating at 6,000 RPM, but was not firing.

I'd used up the entire belt.

I took my finger off the trigger, and rotated the
incendiary thrower into that hand.

Another slug piled out of the sinkhole.

I backed away.

Another slug emerged.

Another.

All three were colored black—I guessed they weren't in "burrowing" mode.

Two hundred crabs were connected to each of them.

I glanced at my platoon brothers.

They hadn't reached the lip of the excavation site quite yet.

They needed more time.

I spun toward the crabs.

They were already all over me.

Pincers clattered against external pistons and compressor joints. Mandibles chewed at exposed tubing and wiring. Inside my cockpit it sounded like hail on a tin roof.