Hell Divers

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  The beam from Commander Weaver’s headlamp cut through the inky darkness of the warehouse. He clambered up the stairs and raced over the skeletal platform, the light bouncing across his path.

  “Jones, do you copy?” Weaver repeated for the hundredth time.

  The maddening crackle of static was the only response. He ran up another staircase and across a second mezzanine, which ended at a steel door connecting the two warehouses. Weaver approached cautiously, pistol up.

  Snippets of Jones’ last words repeated in his mind: The Sirens. They’re everywhere!

  Weaver cursed himself for not making the arduous trek to the crate and loading up on weapons. The allure of the buildings, close by and full of supplies for the taking, had clouded his judgment. He would trade the rest of his water for a blaster or an assault rifle.

  It was too late now. There was no turning back to the crate unless he had the cells and valves. His eyes flitted to his minimap. He had set a nav marker on Jones’ last known location. If the computer was correct, Jones—and the Sirens—were in the next building.

  He eased into a cautious trot across the catwalk. The ancient metal shook and groaned. He grabbed on to a railing with one hand and glanced over the other side. It was farther down than he had thought. Even with the armor shielding his vital parts, he would likely break something if the catwalk gave out. The sturdy warehouses had been built to last, but two and a half centuries was a long time.

  Walking across the final stretch to the door, he crouched down and shined the headlamp over the rusted frame. Long gashes ran down the length of the metal. He crab-walked closer, examining the door under the glow. The abrasions were deep and looked recent. Rust hadn’t worked its way into the deep crevices yet, but something else had. A jagged piece of what looked almost like bone stuck out of one of the incisions. He pulled it and held it under the light. It looked like the broken-off end of a long, curved talon from something big—something the size of a Siren.

  He rotated it under the light. The jagged, yellow claw was rough, but when he tried to bend it, it wouldn’t budge. It had the strength of steel and the coarseness of sandpaper.

  The wind outside beat the sides of the building, rising into a howl that sounded alive. Weaver swallowed and looked at the crevices again. He forced himself to think of his wife, his kids, and the mission. The nuclear fuel cells were on the other side, and the pressure valves could be there, too.

  He shut off his lamp and activated the night-vision optics. You can do this, he told himself. You have to. Jones could still be alive. The words sounded hollow and unconvincing.

  Holding the pistol in one hand, he grabbed the knob and rotated it. The loud click of the latch made him cringe, and he braced himself for the high, keening wail that was sure to follow.

  Nothing.

  He inched the door open and peered into the darkness. He could see the outline of another mezzanine, and the top rows of shelves. Curiosity won out over fear, and he sneaked through the opening.

  He was on the third level of the massive warehouse, standing over hundreds of shelves. Some had come crashing down, perhaps decades ago; others leaned against each other like some giant’s house of cards. The catwalks stretching over the maze sagged or listed in places, but the one in front looked study enough.

  Weaver stepped out onto the nonskid metal grate. It creaked under his boot, and a shriek answered. He froze like a child caught stealing cookies.

  The noise came again, echoing through the space. He whipped his head around, searching for the source, but nothing moved in the NVG’s green-hued field of vision.

  The otherworldly shrieking died away until he could hear only the echo of his breath inside his helmet. He had to find Jones and the salvage they had come for, and get back to the ship.

  He took three silent steps without attracting any audible response.

  Jones, where the hell are you?

  At the end of the walkway, he stopped and grabbed the railing to look over the side. A shelf had collapsed below, spilling its contents across a floor he could hardly see.

  He continued, searching the darkness for any sign of Jones, when a distant screech stopped him in mid stride. Another came from the east, and a third from the west corner of the room. They rose and fell in a whine that made him shiver in his warm suit.

  Weaver trained his pistol in each direction, but he couldn’t see much of anything. His night-vision optics simply couldn’t penetrate the darkness of the warehouse. The battery unit under his vest glowed weakly, giving off barely enough light to see a foot ahead.

  The gun shook in his hands as the eerie wailing started up again, coming from all three directions. With a bump of his chin, he deactivated his night vision and let the darkness swallow him.

  You’re fine. Everything is fine …

  Weaver listened to the alien vocalizations. Everything was not fucking fine. He took another long, calming breath and reached up to click on his headlamp.

  The slight motion cued a symphony of the strange cries. He moved the light over the floor below, seeing nothing. Then he swept it over the catwalks, stopping on something bulky. Lying in the center of one of the walkways, a body. Jones’ right arm dangled over the side, his hand open.

  The whines sounded louder and closer, but Weaver felt stuck, frozen in place. His light had captured a naked, leathery creature kneeling next to Jones. The shape looked almost human, but of course, that wasn’t possible.

  He moved the beam over the spikes jutting from the wrinkled skin of the creature’s back.

  The thing suddenly tipped its head in his direction. The beam of light caught it where its eyes should have been, and Weaver saw lips, stretched into what looked like a wide grin, flecked with blood.

  Weaver’s beam stopped on Jones’ limp hand, dangling over the edge of the catwalk. Leaning over the railing, he saw a case on the ground below.

  The sound of scrabbling claws pulled his gaze upward. Three of the creatures scampered effortlessly across the ceiling. The sight shocked him into motion, and experience took over. Taking a step backward, he raised his revolver and aimed it at the shrieking things.

  He fired off a shot that went wide and ricocheted off the wall. The long-limbed monsters darted away, nails sparking against the metal.

  Steady, Weaver. Steady.

  Closing one eye, he squeezed off two more shots. Both pinged off the wall. The creatures were so damn fast, he had to lead them more. By pure luck, he hit one in the back, and it dropped from the ceiling, arms flailing as it caromed off a catwalk and went cartwheeling to the floor. The sound of the squishy impact sent the Sirens into a frenzy. They fanned out in all directions. Motion below revealed more of the eyeless monsters scuttling across the floor of the warehouse.

  He lined up a shot and hesitated.

  How many bullets did he have left in the cylinder? Two? Three? He could hardly think. He was operating on instinct and adrenaline. The beam of his light rolled over a half-dozen bulb-shaped nests on the eastern wall. The area was alive with movement. One of the Sirens landed on the platform in front of him and dropped to all fours. It lunged, and a hollow-point bullet blew out the back of its skull. The beast slumped to the floor and slid to a stop inches from his boots.

  He heard the clank of another Siren dropping to the platform behind him. He whirled and shot it in the neck as it charged. It flopped to the walkway, choking on its own blood.

  Weaver fired until his revolver clicked, then kept squeezing the trigger, hoping for a bullet that wasn’t there. Talons scraped across the metal platform as more of the beasts closed in. Their screeching reverberated from every corner of the warehouse.

  He looked at Jones’ inert body once more, glanced back down at the case of cells, and ran.

  * * * * *

  Ash felt the Hive slow as they reached airspace above the edge of Hades. She stared a
t the surprisingly crisp feed from the bow of the ship. Flashes of electricity streaked across the main display and danced across the horizon, illuminating a shelf of storm clouds that stretched across the entire skyline.

  “I hope to God Ares isn’t in there,” she whispered.

  Every officer on the bridge had stopped to stare at the monitor. Jordan stood at Ash’s side as they waited anxiously for any sign of their sister ship.

  “Have we heard anything?” she asked.

  Jordan shook his head. “The last transmission we received came over seven hours ago.”

  “What about radar? Have we detected anything?”

  “Negative, Captain. The interference is too strong. If they’re out there, they’re blind, deaf, and mute.”

  Ash sighed. “Willis, where the hell are you, you old bastard?”

  “Captain?” Jordan asked.

  “Nothing.” She changed the subject. “What’s our current power situation?”

  Jordan held up a clipboard. “Samson reported that we’re running at ninety-two percent of power. That was three hours ago.”

  “A bit better than yesterday.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Ash took a moment, painfully aware that whatever decision came next could put the entire human race in jeopardy. She had hoped Ares would be waiting on the outskirts of the storm. Then she could have sent Hell Divers with fuel cells and whatever parts Willis needed.

  Now she didn’t have many options—at least, not many good ones. Ash couldn’t leave the ship to die, but she couldn’t risk navigating the storm to find it, either. An impossible choice, but she already knew what she had to do.

  Flashes of lightning bloomed across the screen in brilliant arcs, and in that fleeting glow, she saw an outline. Could it be … ?

  “Did you see that?” Ash stepped closer to the screen.

  Another bright net lit up the sky, but this time she saw only churning clouds. Perhaps that was all she had seen: a dark pile of cumulus in the form of a ship.

  Jordan came and stood by her side. “What madness do you think drove Captain Willis inside there?”

  “Desperation,” Ash said.

  “Ares is a strong ship. They could still be afloat.”

  “Aye,” Ash replied. “But for how long?” Still peering into the storm, she said, “What did Samson say?”

  “I haven’t asked.”

  “Don’t bother.” She already knew the answer. The airships were built to survive storms, but only for a limited time. It didn’t take many direct lightning strikes to rupture a gas bladder. Worse, the lightning could fry the extensive electrical network snaking through the bowels of the ships. Either event would be catastrophic.

  Ash felt the eyes of her crew on her. Everyone was looking to her for orders. The moment she saw the storm, she had made her decision. Now it was time to give the hardest order of her command. She hated to say it, but Cruise was right: she couldn’t risk the Hive to save Ares.

  “The captains before me didn’t keep the Hive in the sky by taking unnecessary risks,” Ash said. Turning from the monitor, she looked toward her navigation officers. “Ryan, Hunt, keep us on the edge of the storm. Do not—I repeat, do not—enter without my command. I don’t care if the Ares is ten feet on the other side.”

  Both ensigns acknowledged with short nods.

  “Jordan, tell our comm team to keep hailing Ares. I want to know the minute we hear anything.”

  “Aye, Captain,” he replied.

  Ash spied a hint of a frown forming on Jordan’s face. Like the phantom ship outline, it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

  * * * * *

  Travis stopped at a row of tomato plants in Compartment 1 and spat into the first pot. The dirt was moist with the saliva of other lower-deckers. They all worked together down here, using every resource they could to survive. Manure from the livestock that still remained became fertilizer for the plants growing under the lights. Hides and fur from slaughtered animals became clothing. He had a blanket made of rabbit furs, and his leather shoelaces were from a hog killed years ago. Nothing went to waste. Everything was used and reused.

  He passed hundreds of cages of squawking chickens and chirping guinea pigs, and the platoons of workers tending the precious livestock. Captain Ash had apportioned these animals to the lower-deckers after the food riots nearly two years ago. It was a measure to prevent future rebellions, but only a Band-Aid on a bigger problem. Extra rations of eggs and guinea pig meat wouldn’t begin to get at the real needs belowdecks.

  Travis followed a line of passengers toward the two Militia soldiers standing guard at the stairs leading up. Some lower-deckers were going to work, others to the trading post to barter their produce. He wasn’t doing either. He was on his way to the brig, to visit his brother.

  The line surged forward, and Travis pulled out his ID. His head pounded from a migraine that he couldn’t shake. The stench was starting to get to him again. Passing a pen of hogs, he coughed into the sleeve of his trench coat.

  When he finally got to the front of the line, he thought he was going to puke. He handed his ID to the guard on his right.

  “What’s your business?”

  Travis pulled a piece of paper authorizing access to the brig and gave it to the man. “I’m visiting someone.”

  The sentry held the ID under the bank of lights overhead and glanced at Travis, then studied the piece of paper. He gave both back to Travis and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Get moving.”

  Travis climbed the steps and negotiated the maze of corridors to get across the ship. He could have done it blindfolded if he wanted. He knew each passage, nook, and cul-de-sac by heart.

  Passing the Wingman Tavern, he felt his anger rise. He hadn’t realized it in his state of intoxication, but the HD who had smashed his head into the bar was Xavier Rodriguez, the most infamous diver on the ship. Travis’ father, Ron, had dived with Xavier almost fifteen years ago, but Xavier probably wouldn’t have remembered him, since he died ten jumps in. Just enough dives to earn Travis and his mother quarters abovedecks. But when the cough killed her, Travis joined Alex and his other friends down here. He had lived in Compartment 1 ever since, working as an electrician whenever there was work to be had.

  He took a right at the junction. The corridor was empty except for a few soldiers coming from Militia Headquarters. The brig was the second door past the entrance to the HQ. Stopping outside, he brushed his dreadlocks over his shoulder. He entered the dimly lit room, furnished only with two chairs, and approached the front window.

  A female guard, her blonde hair in a bun, glanced up at him from the other side, brushed the breadcrumbs off her gray uniform, and got up.

  “Travis Eddie to see inmate Raphael Eddie.” He held his authorization slip and ID against the window, and she took a look.

  “Wait here,” she said.

  Travis watched her open the door to her booth and step into a narrow passageway. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a man wearing a black hoodie walked into the guard booth. Hands shackled in front of him, eyes roving, he shuffled forward. He seemed oddly disoriented.

  “You got ten minutes,” the guard said, shutting the door with a thud that made the hooded man flinch. He looked at the door, then back at the glass window. His face was shadowed, but Travis could see the bony outline of his cheeks.

  “That you, Trav?” the man whispered in a voice that sounded too weak to be Raphael. He stepped forward, raised his bound hands, and pulled the hoodie back. Thin black hair fell over his shoulders, and dark bags rimmed his eyes. He squinted into the light and blinked rapidly.

  Only six months had passed since he last saw Raphael, but Travis hardly recognized the man standing before him. He wanted to cry out at the sight.

  “Yeah, bro, it’s me,” Travis said. “Guess they aren’t treati
ng you all that well in there.”

  Raphael coughed, and a pained grin formed on his dry lips. “That’s what happens when you help lead a riot. They don’t waste rations on us, you know?”

  Travis hardly noticed himself nodding. He was still shocked to see the frail man in front of him. The brother he remembered was strong, with broad shoulders and thick black hair like his.

  “How are things out there, little brother?” Raphael asked. His right eye twitched as he sat down in the chair.

  For months now, Travis had considered what he would say to Raphael, repeating the words over and over in his head before he went to bed each night. Now he couldn’t remember them.

  “Things are bad,” Travis finally said. The Militia would be listening, but he wasn’t going to lie. “Rations are still too low, and the one doctor Captain Ash assigned to the lower decks can’t keep up. People are suffering worse than ever before.”

  Raphael stared ahead vacantly. His right eye twitched every few seconds, and he shivered in his chair. Travis wasn’t sure he was even listening.

  “You only got two more years in here,” he said. “That’s nothing, man. When you get out, I’ll have a jar of ’shine and a chicken for you—a whole chicken! I’ve been saving credits.”

  “Remember what Mom used to tell us?” Raphael blurted. “About the fall of Babylon and the end of the world?”

  Travis thought back, the pained memories ricocheting through his mind. He could hardly remember her dark-brown eyes, let alone her stories.

  “She was right, little brother,” Raphael said, rocking a little in his chair now. “We brought this on ourselves. The human race was never supposed to live in the sky. We were supposed to die down there.” He pointed a curled, yellowed fingernail at the floor.

  A heavyset male guard opened the door and stepped inside the room. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “You got one minute left.”

  Travis glared at him. “That wasn’t ten minutes!”

  Raphael shied away from the guard, scooting to the edge of his chair. He glanced back at Travis with sunken eyes bereft of hope, and Travis knew in that moment that he had lost his brother.