Hell Divers (8 page)

This was the first of two compartments housing the four hundred lower-deckers. He was lucky to live in the first. The second contained those afflicted with radiation poisoning. He made his way over there only if he had to. The suffering was almost too much to bear. Because of leaking radiation, more and more children were born with deformities. Those who survived early childhood rarely left the second compartment, where they lived like caged animals, confined to their filthy mattresses and forced to rely on their parents.

Captain Ash and her staff rarely ventured down here. Maybe it was easier to live up there and forget about those below. Travis couldn't deny that Ash had made some changes as captain: increased rations, a doctor who made rounds every other day, a crew of engineers who worked to seal off the radiation. But they were hardly enough, and there was more food to go around, but it never seemed to make it down here.

Travis felt a silent scream of rage well up inside him. It wasn't right. No one should have to live like this, and yet, this was how it had been his entire life.

Drawing in a deep breath, he fought the spins from the 'shine. He shouldn't have mouthed off to the Hell Diver. That was a mistake. Next time, he would be smarter.

After the nausea passed, he used the nighttime glow from weak LEDs overhead to navigate his way to his bed. There was just enough light to show him the gaunt faces of those already asleep. Most, like him, were between the ages of twenty and thirty, though they looked twice that. Anyone much older didn't live long—not down here. Flu and cancer were rampant. The average life expectancy was right around thirty-seven years, so he had maybe a decade of this to look forward to.

Travis passed a small candlelight vigil where a dozen monks meditated. He stumbled past them. He had lost his faith a long time ago.

Ahead, Travis saw a line snaking toward the centrally located shit cans. He joined the end of the line. The single metal hatch squeaked open, then shut, as each passenger did what they could to keep the putrid smells mostly isolated by shutting the hatch when done. The trick was to take a deep breath just before entering and hold it as long as you could. Then you could postpone the real suffering until hypoxia forced you to let it out and inhale the stink.

When it was finally his turn, drunk enough to forget this dictum, he staggered inside and almost vomited. With no air circulation, the stench of ammonia and excrement made his eyes water. He squeezed between two men and pissed into one of a dozen wide holes cut into the floor. From there, tubes sucked the waste through the bowels of the ship, to the digester, where it became methane gas for cooking, and compost for the farm. It was best not to think too hard about how they managed the biomass on the
Hive
.

No one inside spoke; they were too busy holding their breath. Travis bore down, voiding his bladder as fast as he could, then zipped up and staggered back out into the relatively clear air of the corridor. He hurried back to his bed and plopped onto his back. He didn't bother pulling the curtain across the railing he had fashioned from salvaged wire.

“That you, Trav?” said a rough voice.

He glanced over to the next bed. Alex was sitting up in his bunk, with his legs thrown over the side. The scarf he normally wore over his face hung loosely over his chest. In the weak light, Travis could see the tight skin on his friend's right cheek and chin, where doctors had removed the melanomal cancer. Ten years ago, Alex had been one of the best-looking kids on the ship, but the cancer had taken part of his face—and, Travis sometimes thought, part of his mind.

“What happened to your head?” Alex asked.

“Ran into a Hell Diver.”

“You kiddin' me, man? One that knew your dad?”

Travis shook his head. “Maybe. I don't know.”

Alex snorted. “Whatever. They're all the same. And they're all going to pay.”

Travis closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about his dad right now, or what he must do to help the lower-deckers. Nor did he want to talk to his crazy-ass friend. He just wanted to sleep off the 'shine so he could visit his brother in the morning.

Tin glanced at X as they walked down the corridor to the school. He wanted to tell him he didn't need an escort, that he could get there just fine on his own, but it didn't matter. The diver wasn't much different from his dad: bullheaded. But at least, his dad had listened to him. X wouldn't listen even if Tin had something to say. He was too selfish for that. X hadn't always been this way. He had changed. Now he was nothing but a barely functioning drunk.

So Tin kept his mouth shut and his head down, especially at school. The other kids teased him and made fun of his hat. But they didn't know his secret. His hat wasn't just a hat. It had a force field that protected him from their comments. They bounced right off. He knew because his dad had told him so when he made it.

“Come on,” X said, reaching out for the boy's hand when they came to the next intersection. Dozens of residents were trying to squeeze through the clogged hallway at once.

Tin hesitated, suddenly terrified. Everything seemed bleaker, darker. Had engineering turned off more lights? Even in the dimness, he caught a glimpse of the purple bags rimming X's eyes. He looked exhausted. Tin had heard him stumble in around nine, but that ruckus hadn't kept him awake—it was the sound of X puking. The sound made him shiver. It reminded him that he was an orphan stuck with a boozer.

“Tin, let's go,” X insisted, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him through the crowd.

They kept to the right, hugging the wall. The school was past the medical bay. He hated walking by the glass doors. Each time, it seemed as if more people were there, waiting for a doctor—more people sick with cancer or the cough.

Tin sneaked a look as they passed the clinic. The lobby was already full: young and old, men and women. Cancer didn't discriminate. Neither did the cough.

He looked away and continued toward the sagging yellow sign that read “School.” Parents lingered outside the entrance, hugging their children before rushing off to their jobs. Tin looked up at X. The guy would never be a parent to him. He couldn't even take care of himself.

And he hadn't been able to save Tin's dad, either.

“Have a good day, kid,” X said.

Tin hiked the backpack farther up on his shoulders and walked past him. He felt in the tool pouch on his belt and pulled out the old coin his father had given him. One side had a bird, the other a man's face. Both were almost worn away. Tin didn't know who it was supposed to be or how much the coin had once been worth, but rubbing its smooth surface always made him feel better.

There's a difference between fighting for what you believe in and killing for what you believe in. Violence is never the answer.

He had never found the right moment to ask his father what he had meant when he spoke those words two years ago, after the riots. But he would never forget the line.

“See ya later, X. Have a great day,” X said to his back.

The boy shrugged it off. X meant well, but in a few years Tin would apply for a job in engineering and have his own room assigned to him. He was only ten, but he was good at building things out of spare parts: robots, grow lights, toys, and computers. And they were accepting recruits younger and younger. The ship needed him, just as it had needed his dad.

Tin slipped the coin back in the pouch and zipped it shut. He hustled through the open door, leaving X in the hallway.

The compartment was separated into four classrooms. His was at the end of the passage on the right. A group of kids were gathered outside the door, blocking the entrance. He avoided eye contact and tried to slip between them.

A tall, slender frame stepped in his way. “Hey, Tin!” Andrew said. “Where ya headed?”

Tin wanted to say,
Where do you think I'm going, idiot?
But he just pointed over Andrew's shoulder.

He knew what came next, and didn't even bother trying to stop Andrew's hand. The tinfoil hat fell to the floor. The other kids chuckled. Tin took a step backward and stooped to pick up the hat, but a pair of hands beat him to it.

He glanced up and saw Layla Brower. A curtain of shoulder-length brown hair fell across her face, but it didn't hide her perfect smile.

She straightened and handed Tin his hat.

“Why don't you troglodytes find something else to do?” Layla said. “Maybe make yourselves useful. You know, if you put your heads together, you might be able to fix a broken shit can or something.”

“Oh, did your dad teach you how to do that?” Andrew shot back. “He works in the sewers, right?”

Layla's face turned pink, and Tin wondered whether she was going to slug the boy. Her hands shook at her sides, but before she could react, the door swung open.

Professor Lana stepped into the hall, let out a weary sigh, and waved the kids in.

“Class started two minutes ago,” she said. Her scowl deepened, accentuating every wrinkle in her face. “Now, come on,” she said. “We have things to learn today.”

The other kids laughed derisively. Tin had heard them call her a witch and worse in hushed voices. But she wasn't so bad. She had always treated him fairly. She winked at him as he sneaked past Layla and Andrew. Hurrying into the room, he slid into his chair and put his hat back on.

Layla came in a second later. She took a seat beside him, and Tin spoke for the first time in days.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

* * * * *

Commander Weaver jerked awake in a snowbank that had drifted up against one of the domed concrete warehouses. The densely packed snow had likely saved his life.

He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his temples. When his vision finally cleared, he saw the wall of snow rolling west, crossing into the frozen waste beyond the city.

Then he remembered Jones.

Weaver pulled his arm out of the snow and found the rope end knotted to his belt. He gave it a tug.

“Jones!” Weaver shouted over the comm.

No response. He wriggled free of the snowbank and slid down to the ground, his boots sinking into powder that came up to his ankles.

“Jones! Can you hear me?”

A voice, half drowned out by static, crackled over the channel. The prayer Jones was mumbling into the comm sounded like the same one he had whispered back in the warehouse.

“Where are you?” Weaver shouted.

“I don't know. I can't see anything,” Jones finally said. “I'm …” He paused. “I'm stuck.”

Weaver checked the minimap on his HUD. The beacon put Jones only a few hundred feet south of the warehouses. He brushed off his suit to check that nothing was broken, then looked at his minicomputer. All systems were functioning, but his battery level was dropping. Without power, he would eventually freeze.

The thought prompted a surge of adrenaline that made him forget his headache. He worked his way through the deep snowdrifts, his boots sinking deeper with every step. Within minutes, he was knee-deep. He pushed ahead until the drifts were almost up to his crotch.

“I can't fucking move!” Jones yelled. “Help me!”

Weaver paused to catch his breath. “I'm coming. Just hold on.” Between breaths, he glimpsed motion in the dark sky. For a moment, he thought he saw something with wings, but a lightning flash revealed an empty horizon. He pushed on, plowing ahead into the drifts. Each stride was harder than the last, and the fresh powder seemed denser, hardening around him like concrete.

Frantic now, he used his arms to clear some of the pack in front of him. He could see the tip of Jones' green helmet. Fighting through the last few feet, he finally closed the gap.

Weaver dug around Jones' helmet, then freed his arms and chest. Now with Jones helping clear the pack, they eventually got him standing.

Weaver looked him up and down. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Weaver twisted around in the snow to look at the dozens of domed warehouses. Somewhere among those concrete beehives were the fuel cells and pressure valves they needed. He noted the location of the crate on his HUD. It was close—less than a quarter mile away. But with the buildings closer, he decided to abandon the heavy weapons for now and go straight for the goods.

“Let's go,” Weaver said. Working his way back the way he had come, he stopped at the first dome. “We need to split up,” he said. “Keep radio contact and let me know if you find anything.”

Jones nodded and shook off a layer of snow. “Good luck, sir.”

As Weaver turned to run, a faint sound caught his ear. The distant high-pitched screech was unmistakable. But this wasn't coming from the ground. It was coming from the sky.

“Wait,” Weaver said.

Both men scanned the clouds.

“You think someone's really listening to all those prayers?” Weaver asked.

Jones nodded. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. Do me a favor and say one for us and the ship.”

* * * * *

X stood in the training bay, directly over the white arrow symbol of the Hell Divers. He had a notepad in his hand. He had seen each of the three divers standing in front of him, but he knew little about them. The teams trained independently from one another. They all shared the same facility, but there wasn't a lot of mingling—not during training, anyway.

Jordan had plucked members from Team Apollo and Team Angel, just as X had expected. He looked them over without saying a word. On the left was Magnolia Katib. She wore a black jumpsuit and, over that, a gray coat held together by chains. Half his age, probably only twenty-one or twenty-two, she had shoulder-length black hair streaked with blue highlights. Her thin lips were coated in purple lipstick, and her electric-blue eyes were rimmed in heavy dark liner. The makeup was black market—expensive and hard to get hold of. Her vibe gave him the creeps.

Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a metallic pin and twirled it between her fingers. “You're freaking me out mister. You gonna say something, or what?”

“Shit, and here I was sorta thinking the same thing about you,” X said. He glanced down at his notepad and skimmed the file that he had already memorized. “Says you're a thief. You can sneak in and out of places. And you're good with electronics.”

She cracked a grin. “Yeah, that's right. Why—got a blown diode?”

“Let me guess: it was either this or the inside of a prison cell.”

X didn't wait for her response. As the woman's cocky grin withered, he moved on to Clint Murphy. The engineer was a head shorter than she, but his outfit was every bit as striking. A pair of crimson goggles hugged his receding hairline. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room, reminding X of a jonesing stim addict.
Nice.
Command had given him a thief and an anxiety case.

“You're an engineer, Clint?”

“Y-yes sir. That's r-right.” He repositioned his goggles and scratched his thin, curly hair. “People call me Murph.”

X turned to Sam Barker. The third diver, at least, held some promise. Dark-skinned and muscular, he stood ramrod straight even at parade rest. He had rolled up the sleeves of his skintight gray shirt to show the Militia shield tattoos on both biceps.

Sam stared ahead, his gaze unwavering. He was a soldier, through and through.

“Says in your file you were instrumental in quelling the riots a few years back.”

Sam dipped his chin. “I was in the first wave into the farms.”

X knew what that meant. The man had seen people die. He would fit right in on Team Raptor. The others were going to take some work. X had his task cut out for him.

“Welcome to Raptor,” X said in the sincerest tone he could muster. Tucking his notepad back in a cargo pocket, he waved the group toward the wind cylinders in the center of the room. When he got there, he propped his shoulder against the glass. He looked at his new team in turn and said, “How many dives you got under your belts?”

“Seventeen,” Magnolia said in a proud voice.

She had attitude to spare … like Rhonda. For a moment, he saw her superimposed there, staring defiantly back at him the way she had done so many times after one of their arguments. He blinked away the memories and looked to the engineer.

“Fourteen,” Murph said.

“Ten, sir,” said Sam.

X had more than twice as many dives as the three of them combined. He had to remind himself that this wasn't unusual. Will and Rodney had been in the same position as the divers standing in front of him. Indeed, Aaron was the only diver on the
Hive
who had even come close to the number of jumps X had completed.

Murph took a half step forward. “Commander?”

X glanced up from his notepad. “What?”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry to hear about your team. I want you to know I'm glad to be here.”

X nodded and glanced at Magnolia, catching her in a smirk. She flicked her hair out of her face and started spinning her toy again.

“What the fuck is that?” X asked. He snatched it from her hand.

“It's a lock pick, man.” She held out her hand. “And it's
mine.
”

He clenched his jaw. “Magnolia, you have three choices. You can call me ‘X,' ‘Commander X,' or ‘sir.' I don't much give a shit which one, but that's it. Got it?

She nodded, and he dropped the instrument back in her palm.

“How many dives have you made, sir?” Sam asked.

“Ninety-six. Now, do you suppose that's all luck?”

Murph raised a hand.

“It was a rhetorical question,” X said. “I have survived because I learned from my mistakes and the mistakes of others. Hell Divers are rarely afforded that luxury. You all have an advantage: you get to learn what
not
to do before you saddle up in the launch bay again. I don't know what you learned on your other teams, and again, I don't much care. Because you're going to learn
my
way of doing things.”