Cole sat back down, moaning from the aches that plagued his body. Bernie took a seat at the desk beside his and brushed her thinning gray hair back over her shoulder. She was a two-time cancer survivor, and Rodger was perpetually afraid that it would come back and finish the job.
“Sit down, Rodge. You need your energy, especially if they’re planning to send you back out there again.”
Rodger sat, looking warily at his mother. “Who said anything about that?”
Without looking up from his clock, Cole said, “Your coveralls speak volumes.”
Rodger glanced down at his black jumpsuit and laughed. “Oops.” He plucked a small red apple from the bowl he had made for his mom on her fiftieth birthday. He had brought the wood back from a dive in a green zone. His team had discovered an entire warehouse filled with lumber, and Rodger had insisted on bringing some back. Magnolia had given him hell for that, rolling her eyes and telling him to leave the wood and grab something useful, such as plastic.
It was then that Rodger had taken a real liking to Magnolia. His thoughts were filled with the girl with blue highlights in her black hair—the girl who never seemed to pay attention to him. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. As soon as she was back from fixing the rudders, he was going to tell her how he felt.
He picked up his carving knife, but instead of cutting into the apple, he went to work on a present for Magnolia. He had just the thing in mind.
* * * * *
As Commander Rick Weaver left the bridge, his mind was filled with questions about the transmission he had overheard Captain Jordan and his XO whispering about. Jordan probably wouldn’t tell the Hell Divers anything, and he certainly wouldn’t ask for their opinions. Everyone knew that the only reason he listened to Katrina’s advice was because he was sleeping with her. It was obvious to most everyone but them, apparently.
Weaver trusted only one person on the ship for answers, and he had only a short time to sneak away and find her. Ten years ago, his home had come crashing to the ground, killing everyone he loved. He alone had survived, and it had changed him.
The hostile ruins of Hades had thrown everything at him, but in the end, he had beaten the wastelands. Captain Maria Ash had welcomed him to the Hive, and he had done his best to honor her memory and be a good role model for the other divers. But this place had never felt like home. It shouldn’t feel like home. The human race belonged on the surface, and someday it would return.
Shortly after coming to the Hive, Weaver had heard rumors of a prophecy originating on the lower decks. He had traced those rumors back to their source. According to the prophecy, a man would come and lead them to their true home, on the planet’s surface. For whatever reason, Captain Ash had believed in the prophecy. Weaver didn’t know what to believe, and maybe that was why he kept coming back here.
He hurried through the passages, darting an occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure no one from command was following him. Jordan would have his head on a pike for going belowdecks. He dug in his pocket and felt for the old-world coin that seemed to bring him luck. He could use some right now.
The coast looked clear, but he drew up the hood on his sweatshirt and kept his head down to avoid inquisitive gazes. Most of the lower-deckers had emerged from their shelters and gotten back to their daily lives. For these people, the turbulence was just another interruption in their routines.
Weaver’s fellow divers, when not working, usually stuck to the upper decks, playing cards and drinking shine. He had earned a reputation as a formidable card player, but few knew that he spent all his spare credits on food and medicines for lower-deckers who couldn’t afford them. Helping the sick and needy, especially here in the third communal space, where the sickest and most disadvantaged people lived, was his way of holding on to hope. But today he wasn’t here to help them. He was here for information.
As he climbed down the final ladder to the entrance to the barracks that housed over a hundred lower-deckers, a militia guard approached. Weaver kept moving purposefully, a worker intent on the task at hand. It seemed to work, and the guard didn’t call after him.
Like the trading post, the communal area was one open space. He pulled a bandanna over his mouth and nose before entering. Coughing and sporadic shouts echoed through the space. He walked inside and took a right at the first alley. Twenty families lived here in slots not much bigger than his launch tube, each habitation cordoned off by thin curtains hanging from cord or rusted drape rods.
Weaver knew exactly how many steps would get him to his destination. Because of the power curtailment, the banks of overhead lights were dark, and the heating units the engineers had hooked up to the boiler were dormant. The flicker of candles guided him through the cold space.
Stopping midway down the aisle, he pulled back a faded red curtain to reveal an empty bunk. The bed and the shelf next to it were covered with books and candles, but the woman he had come to see was gone.
“Christ,” Weaver muttered.
“I thought you weren’t big on him anymore.”
Weaver spun around to see Janga, in a coat stitched together from colorful rags. Her waist-length gray hair was neatly combed. She made her living selling herbs and tinctures, but Weaver hadn’t come here to buy a bottle of her “medicine.”
“What can I do for you, Commander? I was just about to head up to the trading post before they turn the alarms back on.”
“I can’t stay long anyway,” he said.
She sat down on her bed and spread the coat over her legs. Weaver checked outside for eavesdroppers. A boy and a girl, about five and six years old, peeked out of their stall across the aisle. Their parents or caregivers were nowhere in sight. Both had lumpy growths on their foreheads, and their curious eyes were centered on him. The girl waved at him with a hand missing all but two fingers.
He smiled and waved back, then reached into his pocket. The girl smiled when he pulled out two pieces of candy made from hardened jam. After tossing them across the aisle, he drew the curtain closed and pulled the single wooden chair up to Janga’s bed.
He sighed. “I’m sure you know the ship’s in trouble again.”
Her thin lips stretched into a grin, and she lit a candle and placed it on the table in front of him. The light flickered over her wrinkled face.
“Did you come all this way to tell me what I already know?”
He kept his voice low. “It’s more than the energy problem.”
“The rudders,” she replied. “I told you, I know.”
Weaver’s brows drew together, and he stroked his handlebar mustache. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You’re not here to talk about rudders. You’re here to talk about the past.” She leaned toward him and put her hand on his knee. “Rick, you have to let it go.”
He pulled away from her. She never called him by his first name. Hell, he hadn’t even been aware that she knew it.
“I’m here to talk about the prophecy.”
This time, Janga was the one to look skeptical. “I never would have thought a Hell Diver would be a true believer,” she said.
“I need to know where the promised land is, Janga. Are we close? And how are we supposed to know the man who will lead us there?”
She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Rick, you know my visions are limited. I’ve told all I can.”
“You need to try harder,” he said. “I have to find this man.”
She lowered her gaze to the candle and stared into the flame. Voices and coughing outside were the only sounds.
Weaver glanced over his shoulder and pulled the curtain back again to make sure no one was listening. Both kids were peeking through their curtain across the aisle again. The girl smiled, and the boy licked jam off his mouth.
Janga glanced up when Jordan turned back to the table. The gray haze of the cataracts
made her eyes look eerie in the flickering light.
“I’m sorry, Commander.” She closed her eyes and crossed her arms. “In my visions, I’ve seen the promised land, but it’s not what you or anyone else would expect. There are fish there. Many fish. Fish of all shapes and sizes.”
“Fish?”
She snapped her eyes open and smiled again. This time, her lips opened to reveal her two remaining teeth.
“Is this place near the ocean?” Weaver asked. “Because we’re pretty damn close to the coast right now.”
“Where?”
“If you’re psychic, you should already know.”
Janga let out a sigh that smelled like rot. Her robes didn’t smell much better, but Weaver didn’t flinch away.
“I’m only a little bit psychic,” she said, a gleam in her rheumy eyes. “Just tell me where we are, Rick.”
“A place called Charleston.” He studied her for a reaction. She looked surprised, a bare flicker of emotion on her wrinkled face. “Does that name mean something to you?”
“Yes, but this is just another distraction from why you’re really here. You said you aren’t here to talk about your past, Commander, but we both know you’re haunted. Until you face your ghosts, you’ll never be able to enter the promised land.”
The earpiece in Weaver’s hand crackled. He put it back in his ear, his mind racing.
“Commander Weaver, report to the bridge immediately,” said the voice over the channel.
“I have to go,” he said to Janga.
The old woman dropped her arms and stood. “There’s something else you should know.”
Weaver hesitated, one hand raised to draw back the curtain.
“In my vision, I saw you with the man who will lead us to the promised land.”
“Land or water?” Weaver said. “Because you mentioned fish. Last I checked, fish don’t walk. Thanks for the chat.”
Going back through the candlelit space, he shook his head. Maybe everyone was right about Janga. Maybe she was crazy after all. Maybe he was, too. Maybe they all were crazy for holding on to hope.
FIVE
Michael clung to the metal ladder on the vertical face of the stern. Wind lashed and tugged at his suit. Some of the rusted metal rungs were as old as the ship. But of the thousands of items that needed to be checked and replaced every six months during routine maintenance of the Hive, these were often overlooked. With resources stretched thin, who cared about a few metal rungs on the outside of the ship? Nobody—at least, not until lives depended on them.
The rung beneath his left boot creaked as he weighted it. The metal gave slightly, but it held.
The thunder was growing louder, the pauses between booms ever shorter. Each clap vibrated his armor and rattled his nerves.
The storm was getting closer.
Keep moving, Michael.
His stomach sank when he looked down to the next rung. The rudders were about ten steps below, to his left. All three were locked at a forty-five-degree angle, blocking his way into the tunnel—his only way in to reconnect them to the grid.
Another glance showed him the damage that had disabled the rudders. A black streak tattooed the hull. Lightning had ripped right through the ship’s synthetic skin.
A boot hit the rung above his head. Layla was anchored to the ladder, with Magnolia just above her, their suits rippling violently in the wind and rain. Michael secured another carabiner to a steel hanger on the hull and clipped the rope. He pointed down.
“Holy shit!” Magnolia said over the comms. “Looks like the Hive got zapped.”
“I was pointing at the rudders,” Michael said. “We have to find a way around them to get inside.”
“Are you wacked?” Magnolia yelled.
He looked again at the rudders but didn’t see a better option. If they didn’t do this, the ship would likely go down.
He took a slow breath to dispel the jitters from his voice before he spoke. In the upper corner of his HUD, a clock was counting down. They had twenty minutes to repair the rudders before the storm caught up with them—if they even managed to make it to the access tunnel. And if the increased power to the turbofans didn’t blow the generators first.
This could end badly in a thousand different ways.
He fished another carabiner from the pocket on the outside of his armor. Only two left. Instead of clipping them every fifteen feet, as Ty had suggested, he decided to save the last two for later.
“Follow me,” he said over the radio.
He stepped down another rung and pressed his boot against the slippery surface. The wind and rain rendered him nearly deaf and blind, but he was used to working in hostile conditions.
The rope tethered to the clip on his chest armor tightened as he took another step down. He nearly lost his balance when a voice hissed from the speaker built inside his helmet.
“Raptor One, Captain Jordan. Report.”
Michael didn’t respond right away as he struggled to keep his grip on the rusty, rain-slick metal.
“Raptor One, do you copy?” Jordan repeated, his voice taking on an anxious edge.
“We’re working on a way down, Captain. Stand by.”
Layla fed Michael slack, and he grabbed one of the carabiners from his pocket. He was about to clip the hanger just as the hair on his neck prickled. The lightning hit the surface of the ship an instant later. He braced himself as sparks blew past him. The hull, like their layered suits, had been designed to resist conductivity, and by the time the current reached the three divers, it had almost dissipated.
That didn’t make it any less terrifying to see the white-hot electrical arc so close.
A jolt rocked the ship as they dropped into a wind shear. Michael gripped the ladder rail, but the carabiner slipped from his fingers, clanked off the side of the ship, and fell away into the darkness.
“Damn it!” he whispered. With only one biner left, he would have to choose the placement carefully.
He continued down the rungs until he was above the rightmost rudder. The pitted metal surface had more scars than a veteran Hell Diver. With utmost care, he reached with his left hand between the rudder and stern. The gap was a foot wide. Maybe a bit more, but not nearly enough to squeeze through.
He bumped the chin pad twice to open a line to the bridge.
“Captain, I’ve … we’ve reached the rudder,” Michael said, correcting himself to avoid a dressing-down from Jordan for not following orders and giving Magnolia point. “Still searching for a way past them into access tunnel ninety-four.”
From this position, he couldn’t get through to the tunnel. The only way in was down. They would have to climb underneath the rudders and then back up and through one of the vertical gaps.
A new sound emerged over the crackle of static and the rush of wind. The whine of the turbofans reminded Michael of another threat. They were getting closer to the turbines under the ship. If he got sucked inside, the eight-foot blades would turn him to mist.
Four more rungs down got him below the rudders, providing a view up through the gaps. There appeared to be enough room to squeeze through—if he could scale his way up there.
He reached out and grabbed the pocked edge of the first rudder with his left hand while holding on to the rung above him with his right.
“Be careful, Michael,” Layla said over the comm.
“Just checking to see if I can move them manually.”
As he pushed, a gust of wind slammed into his side, throwing him off balance as he pushed. Numbness rushed through his body as his left boot slipped off the rung. For a moment, he felt the same pure rush of adrenaline that prickled through him before a dive.
“Hold on!” Layla yelled.
Her upward tug on the rope helped center his mass, and he stepped back onto the ladder, grabbing the rail and t
he rung above him.
Drawing in a deep breath, Michael gave himself a few seconds to regain his composure. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinked it away and kept his visor pointed at the rudders. If he couldn’t move them manually, he would have to step off the ladder, climb the side of the ship, and wedge himself between the first and second rudders to reach the access tunnel.
“A little slack!” he yelled into his mike. “I have an idea.” He clipped the last biner to a hanger between the ladder and the right rudder.
“What are you doing?” Layla asked.
“Just keep me tight!”
The slack tightened around the clips above his navel, and he stepped off the rung, planting his left boot sole against the sheer wall of the stern. It slid several inches down the wet surface before the rope snugged. Next, he took his other foot off the ladder and pressed it against the stern. With his hands still on the rung, his waist was bent at ninety degrees. He bent his knees as if on rappel, while still holding on to the rung with both hands.
“Oh, hell no!” Magnolia shouted when she realized what he was doing.
“Tin!” Layla cried out a second later.
He let go of the rung with his left hand, then his right, so that he was now dangling entirely from the rope.
His boots slid another few inches, and he let the wind take him. The momentary sensation of weightlessness made his stomach flutter the way it always did during the first moment of a dive, when the launch tube opened and he plummeted earthward. This wasn’t much different, he told himself. Heck, it was safer. Nothing but air separated his boots from the surface twenty thousand feet below, but at least he had a rope. He could do this.
“Hold tight!” he yelled.
Swinging from right to left, he studied the three rudders directly above him.
The countdown on his visor broke fifteen minutes.
How the hell was he supposed to get these things up and running in so little time?
Both X and Michael’s dad had been in worse situations than this. They would have found a way. There was always a way.
Hell Divers II: Ghosts Page 6