Warriors

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  This took Forge a few moments.

  “Sir,” Imulah said, “Colonel Forge says Colonel Moreto claimed she was having engine troubles, and it is custom not to interfere with another officer’s warship. Further, Colonel Forge said that if she had moved on the capitol tower, he would have stopped her, and that if he wanted you dead, he would have told her your secret.”

  X smirked. “You expect me to believe that hunk of whale shit?”

  The scribe hesitated, but X told him to repeat the message.

  “Colonel Forge says he can prove he is telling the truth, and if you want him to kill Colonel Moreto, he will proudly fulfill your request.”

  Sloan looked back at X and said something Michael couldn’t make out from where he stood.

  “This is all crap,” Les whispered.

  “How can he prove it?” X asked. “And what is my secret?”

  Imulah asked Forge, who took a step closer to the throne. Ton’s and Victor’s spears moved downward.

  The colonel stopped and looked at the men in turn, then back to X.

  Imulah interpreted for Forge.

  “He says he knows the truth about the Lion and that you will know what he means by that. If he had let this information out, you would already be dead, but he does not want another war.”

  X got out of his chair, stumbling slightly. He walked down to the edge of the platform. Michael felt a chill run through him, though he wasn’t sure whether it came from the news or seeing the two warriors staring each other down.

  “The truth about the Lion?” X asked.

  Forge spoke, holding the king’s gaze.

  “He says Lieutenant Sloan and Colonel Vargas are not the only ones with spies on the rigs, and he’s uncovered the truth about Lieutenant Ada Winslow,” Imulah said.

  X’s cracked lips moved, but no words came out.

  Forge pounded his chest armor and put his hand on his sword pommel as he spoke.

  “Colonel Forge says it would be customary to grant Colonel Moreto a chance to fight for her life in the Sky Arena,” said the scribe. “He also says that he will be the one to take her head if you so wish, King Xavier.”

  Michael watched as X seemed to deliberate for a few seconds.

  “No, I’ll let Magnolia have the honor,” he finally said. “I’ve got other plans for Colonel Forge.”

  X narrowed his gaze on the stone-faced colonel. “I want him to head to the Iron Reef in Belize, secure the other fuel outpost, and bring us back a tanker.”

  Imulah relayed the request and Forge nodded.

  “Sí, rey Javier,” he said.

  The colonel backed away, and X sat back down to take a drink of wine.

  “Everyone but Michael and Les, leave me,” he said.

  The rest of the room emptied, leaving only the three men.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Michael,” X said. “Les already knows.”

  Michael raised a brow.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Ada . . . She didn’t kill herself,” he said. “I exiled her while you were away.”

  “What! ”

  “I don’t know if Colonel Forge knows that, but if he knows what she did to the Lion, he holds the cards now.”

  “So what do we do?” Les asked.

  “If Forge completes the mission and keeps what happened to the Lion a secret, he will have my trust and respect,” X said. “If not . . . shit, Captain, I have no idea, but it will likely be very bloody.”

  TWELVE

  Ada tried to wrap her broken toe, but the wobbly boat made it difficult. She waited for the craft to settle, then realized that it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  For the past day, the choppy water had grown into turbulent swells, as if her boat were a toy in a gigantic rocking bathtub. Worse, since escaping the research ship three days ago, her stomach problems had not improved. It wasn’t radiation poisoning, since throwing up was her only symptom. If she had radiation poisoning, she would be in far worse shape. This was plain old seasickness from the little boat’s wallowing and pitching. She slipped a wool sock over her foot and reached for a bucket that reeked of vomit.

  She tried to resist the next spasm, but there was no stopping it once the smell hit her nostrils. By the time she finished lurching and dry heaving, everything hurt.

  The lantern in the enclosed quarters illuminated flecks of blood. Maybe she had radiation poisoning after all.

  That wasn’t her only new worry.

  Jumping off the ship, she had broken her big toe and torn off the nail inside her boot. It hadn’t seemed bad at first, but now it throbbed with her pulse.

  Without proper medical attention, an infection, even in a toe, could kill her.

  For the first time since pushing the button that killed the Cazador crew of the Lion, she felt a tinge of regret. Being sick, injured, and alone in the darkness out here in the middle of the ocean was hell. And she wasn’t even sure where here was.

  Her progress on this compass bearing should put her somewhere south of the island of Hispaniola, perhaps five to twenty miles from land. It was hard to tell.

  She had traveled mostly by the gas motor, with maybe thirty miles from rowing. She hadn’t touched the oars for the past day, though. Her blistered hands needed the break, and the seasickness made rowing impossible.

  To conserve gas, she had cut the engine. As long as she kept on the bearing X had marked on the map, she should be fine.

  Ada moaned and pressed her back against the bulkhead, gripping the bucket so the contents didn’t spill. People in desperate situations often thought of their loved ones, but she didn’t have many.

  The only man she ever loved had died on a Hell Diving mission when she was eighteen. She wasn’t sure she knew what love was, but at least she had experienced sex before he died.

  Death was the other thing on her mind. Part of her thought about embracing it, giving up. Do it in the least painful way.

  You’re not killing yourself, so forget it.

  “Not yet, anyway,” she mumbled.

  She woke sitting up sometime later, still gripping the puke bucket between her knees. That was good, because a swell had slammed into her boat, nearly knocking her off the bunk.

  Thunder boomed in the distance, and rain pecked at the roof overhead like hundreds of fingertips tapping the metal. The storm was getting worse.

  Ada opened the floor-lock hatch to dump out the puke—the same lock she used to flush shit and piss.

  As soon as she stood, her stomach seemed to roll with the boat. She had to sit back down for a moment. It was time to use one of the precious antinausea pills.

  She downed one of the few that remained and fell off the bunk as a wave slammed the starboard hull. Gear fell from the bulkheads.

  This was it, the moment she had feared since setting off on the journey. The sea was going to swallow her and send her to the bottom.

  Not without a fight, it’s not.

  She had been battling Mother Nature all her life in the sky, and damned if she would just sit here and let it kill her now.

  After securing her suit and helmet, she opened the hatch. The wind pushed her backward, and rain pelted her. She fought the gusts and stumbled over to the wheel, which she had locked in place. After unlocking it, she started the motor.

  The waves seemed to be growing in size. Lightning captured the tips of what looked like white dorsal fins. Without night-vision goggles, the sporadic flashes were all the light she had.

  A wall of waves blocked out the view to the north.

  On the airships, they could go above or even below storms, but she had no other option than to go right through it in her little underpowered boat.

  A raucous explosion of thunder shook the heavens and rattled her bones. In the respite, she heard a chok
ing sound. The motor was struggling.

  “Come on!” she yelled.

  It felt as if she were crawling in a race that required sprinting to win.

  The boat held steady for now, but the motor sputtered more often. She wiped her visor clear and turned to check for smoke.

  When she turned back to the north, something caught her attention on the horizon. Cresting a wave, she got a momentary glimpse of what looked like a landmass.

  But the waves were growing in size. The boat wobbled up and down over them.

  Don’t puke in your helmet, Ada.

  She wasn’t sure she had a choice.

  The bow punched into the next wave, and she slid, her broken toe lighting up as she grabbed the wheel to steady herself. Another wave broke over the bow a moment later, drenching her. She turned with the swell, trying to move with it.

  Another flash gave a quick view of the landmass, and she saw civilization. Or what was left of it. The resorts that had once towered over the beaches had crumbled into piles of debris. A monster wave blocked out the view until it lifted the boat.

  The masts of several sail craft stuck out of the harbor at odd angles. A skeletal prow jutted above the waves.

  Anxious to take refuge in the harbor, she pushed the throttle down as far as she dared. The wind howled, flinging rain that felt like needles.

  Almost there.

  She held back the puke and felt her heartbeat in her throbbing toe.

  The boat rose on another wave and smacked down into the trough. This time, the impact knocked her grip from the wheel. She fell backward, slamming against the closed hatch of the cabin.

  The boat didn’t founder, but the deck had several inches of water. She slopped through it to reach the wheel yet again. The best she could hope for was to keep the boat moving in a straight line toward the forest of masts a half mile ahead.

  Lightning hit a steel tower, showering sparks over hills of debris and mutated vegetation. Images of the monsters on the research ship surfaced in her mind as she recalled the last time she deviated off course. But there was no turning back now.

  The boat struggled over a large wave, plunged into the trough, and went up on the next swell. At the crest Ada got a view of the landmass stretching across the horizon, but the image vanished as the bow plummeted.

  A scream escaped her throat.

  Down the boat went, toward water as black as night. She fell to the deck, water sloshing over her.

  Lightning cut the horizon, illuminating the biggest wave yet. It rolled toward her, and like so many times in the sky, there was nothing to do but brace for the coming impact.

  * * * * *

  Les cursed when he saw the time on his wrist computer. It was just after dusk, and he had spent all day working with Samson’s little army of mechanics, engineers, and electricians trying to restore the airship to operational speed.

  “Samson, I’ve got to bail now for dinner with my family,” he said.

  The lead engineer coughed as he torqued another nut on the turbofan. Then he rested his sweaty back against the panel.

  “No problem, Cap, I’ve got things under control,” Samson huffed, “assuming we don’t find any more freaks inside our turbofans. It’s no wonder this one had so much damage.”

  “I’ve got my radio if you need me,” Les said.

  He jogged past the staging area under the airship. Tool crates were laid out in neat rows. Coils of wiring and spare parts awaited installation.

  Soon, Discovery would be 100 percent operational.

  Les put that out of his mind. If he didn’t hurry, he would be late for dinner with his wife and daughter—the first real meal they had shared since his return from Rio de Janeiro. He mustn’t screw this up, especially since he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be here.

  Instead of eating in their quarters tonight, he had a surprise for his family. He had told Katherine to save their ration of fish and wait for him to get home. It was a small step in trying to make up for being mostly absent since Trey’s death, but it was a start.

  He passed under the ship and halted when he saw the platform extending from the launch bay. A team of militia soldiers, all of them unarmed, and a group of medical staff waited outside.

  Les had been so busy working, he had forgotten that the bunker survivors from Rio de Janeiro had been cleared to leave quarantine. The immune-system boosters had worked, according to Dr. Huff.

  The old man waited at the bottom of the platform, a tablet tucked under his arm, his white jacket whipping in the breeze.

  Les hurried over to see the Vanguard Islands’ newest citizens emerge and take their first breath of unfiltered air. He stayed in the shadows, not wanting to cause any distractions. Lieutenant Sloan had gone to great lengths to make everything go smoothly, even ordering her soldiers to supervise without their weapons.

  A tall, muscular man with dreadlocks stepped up to the top of the ramp. It was Pedro, the leader, who had killed a Siren with the leg of a cot. He reached back and picked up a young girl, whom Les also recognized.

  She was the orphan who had lost her father to the stowaway Siren. Her mother had perished in the battle with Horn and his skinwalkers.

  Pedro carried the girl down the ramp, and his people followed wearing their gray jumpsuits.

  Curious eyes flitted over the tropical forest and the rooftop, the adults taking in the sights with eyes as wide as the children’s.

  Several of Samson’s team joined Les to watch.

  “More mouths to feed,” said a mechanic.

  “Hope they have some skills so we can put ’em to work,” said another.

  Les turned toward them. He had known both men all his life and was saddened at their selfish comments.

  “They survived underground for over two and a half centuries,” he said. “They obviously have skills. Now, get your asses back to work.”

  Les had thought X would be here to greet the new arrivals, but maybe he was planning something else.

  Or maybe he’s hitting the sauce.

  He took off through the tropical forest, hoping that wasn’t the case. The veteran Hell Divers had gathered with the greenhorns outside the Sky Arena for weapons training.

  Edgar sat in a chair near the railing, cleaning his sniper rifle. He was the best marksman of the divers. Les had watched him hit a can off a boat on the water at over fifteen hundred meters.

  Tonight, he was taking over for Magnolia and Michael, who had led the training while X recovered from his injuries. With the king out of commission and Les too busy to help, only four veterans had the experience to pass on to the dozen rookies.

  “That’s not how you do it,” Arlo said.

  “Stop, man,” Ted said. “This is my rifle, and I’ll hold it the way I want.”

  Arlo shrugged. “Fine. Die if you want.”

  “Guys, please shut up,” Rodger said.

  Les walked on, to the door of his small two-room apartment, taking in a breath. He couldn’t mess this up. His family needed a good evening together, and he needed a break from work.

  “Papa!” Phyl yelled when he opened the door.

  She came running down the passage and wrapped her arms around his midsection. Katherine hung back, her hair blowing in the breeze through the open windows.

  The afterglow of the sunset streaked across the sky behind her.

  “I just need to change, and then we’re off, okay?” he said.

  Phyl gave a snaggletoothed grin. “Do you like my dress?” She curtsied, spreading the flowery yellow dress outward.

  “It’s beautiful, honey,” Les said.

  Katherine was also wearing a dress, of white material. In the past Les would have told her she looked gorgeous, but they hadn’t spoken that way to each other for months.

  Les hurried into their bedroom and change
d out of his jumpsuit. He put on the only casual clothes he owned: brown trousers and a yellow button-­down shirt.

  Since becoming captain, he had heard his nickname less and less, but even he admitted he looked like a giraffe in the outfit.

  “You guys ready?” he said.

  “Yeah!” Phyl yelled excitedly.

  Les led the way. They went four floors down to an open pair of wooden doors with intricate carvings of fish and other sea creatures.

  The room was the Cazador version of a mess hall. But this was no ordinary mess hall.

  Lanterns hung from beams across the vaulted ceiling of sparkling mosaic tiles depicting elephants, whales, and tigers.

  “Hey, that’s you, Dad,” Phyl said, pointing to a giraffe.

  Katherine almost grinned. Les reached down to grab their hands. To his surprise, Katherine didn’t resist.

  They entered the public seating area side by side—another change.

  People sat at wooden tables, eating dinner as mouthwatering scents of spices and sizzling fish drifted out of the open kitchen.

  Adrian was one of the cooks. The young man slaved over a grill with his dad, Dom, the chef famous for his noodles on the Hive.

  The aroma of their orange noodles, a favorite of King Xavier’s, drifted through the room.

  “What are you having tonight, kiddo?” Les asked Phyl.

  “I really like lobsta,” she said. “Can I?”

  He glanced at Katherine.

  “You can have whatever you want, sweetie,” she said.

  They queued up behind six other people. It reminded Les of some of the destroyed places he had seen in the wastes. Places called restaurants, where people once waited in long lines to order flat, round bread with tomato sauce and cheese, or meat sandwiches and string potatoes.

  “What can I get for you tonight?” said the young Cazador boy behind the counter, in almost unaccented English.

  “I want a lobsta and some potatoes,” Phyl said.

  “One langosta, coming right up.”

  The boy wrote it down and looked to Katherine.

  “Whatever the fresh catch of the day is,” she said.

  “Sea bass?”

  “Lovely.”