ATLAS 3 (ATLAS Series Book 3) by Isaac Hooke

Author:Isaac Hooke [Hooke, Isaac]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: 47North
Published: 2015-06-09T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tahoe

We were deep within the warrens beneath Shangde City, on the far side of the cavern that housed the Queen. A tunnel led out of there toward our target, the Observer Mind, but the way forward was blocked by two tall entities that looked like oversized, cordless crabs.

Neither of our two parties moved. Both sides merely stared at one another in uncomfortable silence. Actually, we were the ones who stared: the alien entities didn’t appear to have eyes.

The pair abruptly stood to their full twenty-three-meter heights and unleashed a rapid staccato of clicks and shrieks.

“Make no aggressive movements,” Facehopper wrote. “We don’t want them to call the horde down on us.”

One of the entities broke away from the entrance and crabwalked right up to Bomb who, as our point man, stood the closest to them. The alien went on to bombard his mech with a quick sequence of clicks that managed to sound one part accusation and three parts pissed off.

Bomb remained motionless.

The giant crab ended its tirade and then proceeded to stalk down our ranks.

“Apparently our EM emitters still count for something down here,” TJ wrote.

“For now,” Fret texted back.

The alien paused beside each mech as if it were searching for something; its front mandibles clashed together loudly every few seconds.

When the being reached Ghost and me, it halted, towering over us. The thing stood twice as high as Antares, Ghost’s mech.

I remained stock-still in the passenger seat, worried that the super crab had detected my presence. I resisted the urge to crouch lower, not wanting to make any sounds that might draw its attention.

The entity abruptly leaned far forward, its slime-covered mandibles hovering a mere handspan from my face. Those long, ant-like jaws could easy tear my jumpsuit in two, or separate my head from my neck. My helmet lamp illuminated a smaller pair of mouth appendages inside the maw, and beyond them a dark orifice whose translucent insides pulsed with the flow of black blood.

A line of silvery drool issued from the maw and oozed down the front of my faceplate.

“Guys . . .” I wrote on the common line.

The supercrab unexpectedly smashed a claw against Antares’s chest piece.

The ATLAS 5 fell backward.

The mech crashed into the cavern floor. Situated as I was in the passenger seat, for a moment I thought I was going to be crushed. But the mech ended up balancing on the hump of its jetpack so that from where I resided, strapped in to the seat above the pack, my faceplate was only a handspan from the rock floor. Uncomfortable yes, but alive.

Ghost had dropped the payload. The device lay upon the ground beside us.

The supercrab wrapped its pincers around the heavy warhead and hauled it away.

“No one move,” Facehopper wrote. “Cyclone, are you all right?”

“Perfect,” I wrote back, wishing there was a way to convey sarcasm in text.

The supercrab deposited the payload in front of the other entity, and the aliens released a stream of hi-pitched clicks toward the device as if scrutinizing it.

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