ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2) (24 page)

“I’m sorry,” Dyson said.

“Forget it.”

“He’s the one I was sent to replace, wasn’t he?” Dyson pressed.

“Leave it alone, Dyson.”

I heard him swallow behind me. “I’d do the same, you know. Give my life for the Team.”

“We all would,” I said. “I need some rest. Take care.”

I moved off, not so much because I needed rest, but because I was worried he’d say something to set me off.

I reached my bed and lay down.

That’s when Tahoe and Facehopper showed up.

“Look who’s gone and gotten his arm replaced,” Facehopper said. “How’s it feel?”

“What, to lose my arm?”

“No, mate.” Facehopper poked my bio-printed limb. “To lose your leg. Of course your arm!”

I sat up. “Well, it’s like I’ve had one too many beers and slept on my arm all night, and only now woken up.”

“So not too different than usual,” Facehopper joked.

“Pretty much. Except the symptoms are reversed. Instead of the arm being numb but fully movable, I feel everything but can’t move it.”

“Sounds like a new type of drug.”

“Yeah. The Banye Bio-Printed Specialty. So how’d you guys know I was up?”

“We told the doc to ping us as soon as you were awake. We were in the middle of PT, so I had to order everyone to stay behind. You can expect more visitors to trickle in later. Tahoe should’ve stayed behind too, but the disobedient little bastard wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Hey,” Tahoe said. “There are some orders that can’t be followed. Like abandoning one’s friends.”

Abandoning one’s friends.

Like I’d done to Shaw.

Tahoe abruptly fell to his knees and teared up. “Rade.” He clasped my good arm to the elbow. It was the clasp of brothers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, brother. I should’ve stayed behind with you. I should’ve disobeyed orders. I . . . I just . . .”

“No, Cyclone,” Facehopper said. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I should have been the one who stayed behind. I should have ordered Rage to eject from his mech, and taken the ATLAS from him. Instead I returned to the DV with you like a coward.”

“There was no cowardice in what either of you did,” I said. “Like you said at the time, Facehopper, don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. I was in a mech. You weren’t. And if you’d ordered me to eject, I probably would’ve told you to take your command and shove it up your ass. Sir.”

Facehopper laughed. “I thought as much. Which is partly why I didn’t give the order in the first place. Didn’t want to have to court-martial you and ruin your career when I got back.”

“Yeah, well, it truly isn’t the fault of either one of you,” I continued. “By the way, Facehopper, this is exactly why I never want a position like yours. The burden of command. I couldn’t take it. Leading Petty Officer. It’s not for me.”

Facehopper smiled. “Burden? Hardly. It does have its perks, mate. It’s kind of fun having people obey your every word. As long as you can get over the guilt when someone under you gets hurt. Besides, given a changing battle space and outdated orders, every MOTH is supposed to take the initiative and lead his brothers, completing the mission however he can. I’ve seen you do the same.”

“Not like what you did back there,” I said. “Honestly, making the decision you made? Calling Tahoe back? I don’t think I could have done it. I would’ve let him stay. I would’ve let every MOTH stay. To protect one man. And I would have put everyone at risk by doing so. What kind of a leader is that, Facehopper? No, I can’t make the decisions you do. You’re the leader, not me. And I respect the burden you carry, I really do.”

“Thank you,” Facehopper said. “I think. By the way, if you ever do become LPO, here’s a tip for dealing with the guilt: beer. Drink it in vast quantities. Speaking of which, I owe you a drink.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Marines, all clandestine-like, then lowered his voice. “The guys jury-rigged a distillery down in engineering. Been brewing up some fine rotgut. Unofficially, of course. As soon as you’re declared fit for duty, I want you to unofficially march your pretty arse down there.”

“Will do,” I said.

“Cheer up, mate.” Facehopper punched my grafted shoulder. “You’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Hey, don’t be attacking a defenseless man in a hospital bed,” I said.

“You’re hardly defenseless!”

He came in at me again, forcing me to knock the blow aside with my good arm. After some playful tussling with him and Tahoe, which resulted in the unintended, painful extraction of the IV tube from my hand, requiring the doc’s intervention, my friends pulled up chairs.

“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.”