Captives

FOUR

Les Mitchells slammed the radio down.

“Shit, we lost her.”

After days of trying to get hold of the captain and the USS Zion, the conversation had been cut short, and Les had a dozen other things he needed to talk to Katrina about.

“Did she say what I thought I heard her say?” Layla asked.

The order had surprised them all, but at least he was now free to tell the truth and recruit on a wider scale.

“Someone already dropped the bombshell about the Metal Islands,” Michael said. “Now it’s just a matter of explaining what they really are—and what we’re going to find there.”

“Who would have done that?” Layla asked.

Les looked toward the small crew of Ensigns Dave Connor, Bronson White, and Ada Winslow. He trusted them and doubted that any of them were responsible. Not many people knew that X and Magnolia had found the Metal Islands, and even fewer knew what the Metal Islands actually were and who lived there.

Chief Engineer Samson was one of those few. But there was always the possibility that a passenger with a radio could have intercepted a transmission.

It didn’t matter now. The rumors were out, and they were growing and evolving like an electrical storm over a red zone. Even his wife and daughter were asking him for details.

A sudden thought made him cringe. Had Phyl or Katherine told a friend about the Metal Islands? That was all he had told them at this point, and he would give them the full truth before the announcement.

In a few hours, every soul on the airships would know the truth about the one habitable location they had discovered in over 260 years.

“I’ll call a gathering tonight in the trading post and broadcast it over the comm systems,” Les said. “In the meantime, I’ll get with Sergeant Sloan again to see how many militia soldiers we have for the fighting force.”

“This would be a really good time for some still-disgruntled lower-deckers to try something,” Layla said, nervously brushing the end of a braid with her thumb.

“Maybe they’ll save some of that anger for the Cazadores,” Michael said, “and fight with us when the time comes.”

“Maybe,” Layla replied, clearly not convinced.

“Sergeant Sloan has assured me security on the airships will remain her top priority,” Les said, although he wasn’t sure that was possible. They couldn’t commit a force to the Metal Islands without leaving the airships’ security team severely understaffed.

Michael stood, holding his stump in one hand. “Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”

Les shook his head. “Not unless you want to meet with Sergeant Sloan and me later.”

“Michael should be resting,” Layla said.

“That’s all I’ve been doing. Besides, I have somewhere I need to go.”

Layla shot him a wary glance. “Where?”

“To the archives. I want to see if the records have anything about Red Sphere.”

Les had a feeling there was more to it than a little research.

“You’re still healing,” Layla said, “and it’s probably about time for some more painkillers. Does Dr. Huff even know you left?”

“I don’t take orders from the doc. I report only to the captain, and I’m certain she would appreciate more information on what we faced at Red Sphere. The Cazadores aren’t the only enemy out there, you know.”

Les wasn’t used to seeing Michael argue with Layla, especially in front of others. There was something odd about his behavior, and not just because he lost his arm to one of the robots. They all wanted to avenge Erin’s and Ramon’s deaths at the hands of the AI defectors, but the only threat that mattered right now was the Cazadores.

The gravelly voice of Samson suddenly broke across the bridge. An unannounced visit from the chief engineer probably meant something was wrong. He rarely made the trip to Deliverance unless it was important.

“Lieutenant, you want to explain to me why I should be turning on that AI again?” he said.

Ah, yes, the discussion about trusting Timothy Pepper. He should have known this was coming.

Les sighed as the burly man made his way across the bridge, dabbing at his forehead with an oil-stained handkerchief.

“I’m going to be honest. I think it’s a shit-can idea, especially after what happened at Red Sphere.” Samson glanced at Michael but didn’t address his injury.

“You’ve heard the reports of what Pepper did to help X and Mags reach the Metal Islands,” Michael said. “For that reason alone, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t allied with the murder machines we encountered at Red Sphere.”

“I agree,” Les said. “But Katrina said this is your call.”

“Don’t you need his help?” Layla asked. “We’re short-staffed, and Timothy can certainly fill in some of the gaps.”

Samson shoved the hankie into the bib pocket of his coveralls. “Of course I could use his damn help. The Hive is falling apart like always, but I also don’t like the idea of having him malfunction and kill us all in a fiery wreck… or worse.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Les said.

“But if there’s even a ghost of a chance…” Samson’s bloodshot eyes scanned each of them in turn. Then he made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh.

“Well?” Les asked.

Samson shrugged a shoulder. “I could use his help with some engineering issues, and we will need his assistance with Captain DaVita when we rendezvous at the Metal Islands… assuming we ever hear from her again.”

“We just did,” Les said.

Samson muttered, “No one tells me anything.”

“We haven’t had the chance—and already lost contact,” Les said. He explained about the damage to the USS Zion, and Katrina’s orders to call a meeting on the Hive, where they would discuss the Metal Islands and recruit fighters on a wider scale.

“She’s lost her damn mind,” Samson growled. “But I can’t say as I blame her. Never thought I’d see the day when we found a habitable place on the surface.”

“That makes two of us,” Les said. “And that’s why I agree this is worth the risk. That’s why I let my boy stay down there.”

The engineer stood there a moment, staring down at the patches on his boots. “All right, I’ll give the order to turn Pepper back on, but the moment he acts up, I’ll light him up like a Hell Diver in an electrical storm.”

“Not funny!” Michael said.

“Ah, hell, we need a little humor around here,” Samson said, clapping Michael on his good arm.

“When you reactivate Timothy, tell him I’d like to see him,” Michael said.

“You got it, Commander.”

Ada, Bronson, and Dave stood as Samson left. After all, he was acting captain of the Hive. When he was gone, Les took a seat again and massaged his temples.

“I sure hope Katrina knows what she’s doing,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. His son was out there, on a warship in the middle of the ocean, and closing in on the Metal Islands.

The thought got Les to his feet. There was much work to be done.

He asked Michael, “You sure you don’t want to come to my meeting with Sergeant Sloan, Commander?”

Michael shook his head, digging in, despite Layla’s protests.

“Okay, but I would like—I expect—to have both of you by my side during the announcement tonight. It will be good for everyone to see some veteran Hell Divers up there with me.”

“We’ll be there,” Layla said.

Magnolia had never worn a dress this fancy. She stood in front of a cracked mirror, turning from side to side to examine the loose-fitting white shift that came up just above her knees and fit snugly over her breasts.

“El Pulpo will like this very much,” Imulah said.

The two Cazador women helping her with the dress and makeup nodded. Both were beautiful, and they spoke both English and Spanish. One, a slender freckled redhead, smiled warmly.

The other, olive skinned with a braid of black hair down her back, was even more stunning.

She focused her dark eyes on Magnolia and said, “Imulah is correct. El Pulpo will like you in this.”

“Screw what he likes,” Magnolia said, scowling.

Imulah ran a hand over his bald pate—the first time she had seen him flustered. She was getting on his nerves, but then, that was the point.

“What are your names?” Magnolia asked the women.

“Pardon me for not introducing them earlier,” Imulah said. “This is Inge,” he said, nodding at the redhead. “And Sofia.”

“And they are who exactly?” Magnolia asked.

“El Pulpo’s favorite wives, of course,” Imulah said.

Magnolia almost gagged. Inge looked to be still in her teens, and Sofia didn’t appear much older. It wasn’t hard to imagine how terribly the barbarians treated them. Magnolia would teach them a thing or two about how to deal with men like el Pulpo.

For now, she just wanted out of this dress. She didn’t even know why the hell she was wearing it.

“The blue streaks need to go,” Sofia said, reaching out toward Magnolia with a pair of scissors.

She grabbed the girl’s narrow wrist and squeezed. “No, they don’t.”

Sofia looked to Imulah, who sighed and nodded.

“Lo siento,” she said. “Sorry.”

Magnolia loosened her grip and turned back to the mirror. She hardly recognized the woman standing there. The dress fit her muscular body like a glove, and the makeup Sofia and Inge had applied gave a glow to her pale skin.

This wasn’t the black-market crap she bought on the Hive. This was the real stuff that women in the picture books had once worn. It did a great job of masking her bruises and cuts.

Imulah pulled out a pocket watch. “We must hurry,” he said, flipping the lid shut with his thumb.

Sofia and Inge remained in front of the mirror while Magnolia walked out of the narrow quarters. She stopped at the hatch and turned back to the two young wives, feeling guilty for being so harsh.

“Sorry about your wrist,” Magnolia said. “Hopefully, it won’t cause a bruise, but if it does, you’ve got that makeup.”

The two women stared back at her. Inge seemed frightened, but Sofia looked mad. Perhaps there was some fire in this woman’s belly after all.

“I was like you when I was a bit younger,” Sofia said. “Proud and aggressive. This is what happens to people who resist. She turned away and dropped her dress. Reaching over her shoulder, she pulled her long braid away from her back to expose a network of scars.

Magnolia gasped, but the lash marks didn’t surprise her. She knew the monster who had done this. It was the same monster she was scheduled to marry.

She had to get out of this hell.

“Let’s go,” Imulah said gently. He put a soft hand on her back, and Magnolia flinched at his cold touch.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

Imulah lowered his hand and gestured toward a staircase where two Cazador soldiers waited. One of them started up the stairs, his sandals hardly making a sound on the metal rungs.

They climbed until she was out of breath, but she didn’t stop to rest. When they finally reached the top of the tower, the two soldiers opened a hatch that led outside.

This time she didn’t have to squint into the sun or shield her eyes. It would be dark soon—another day passed on the Metal Islands.

Birds soared overhead, and not the mutant vultures from the Turks and Caicos Islands. These birds weren’t monsters, and the sun over the shimmering water in the distance wasn’t an illusion.

How could hell be this beautiful?

She followed the two soldiers and Imulah down a dirt path inside what she now realized was the airship she had seen from the decks below. Along the outer rim grew a jungle of trees, rooted deeply in soil trekked in from who knew where.

Magnolia stopped when she saw their destination: an arena carved from the center of the airship’s roof, with rows of seats surrounding a central pit of white sand. Hundreds of people were already in the seats or standing near the pit. Above the stands were several elevated booths with fans blowing on their occupants.

Imulah beckoned her toward a platform built over the dirt, surrounded by lush tropical plants and flowers. The two soldiers ahead stopped at the largest booth overlooking the arena and jammed their spear butts into the dirt. They stiffened and looked ahead, ready to protect their king, who sat inside on a throne overlooking the arena.

She could see el Pulpo, hunched over and enjoying a meal. He looked up at her approach, dropping a bone on the ground as he stood. The octopus tattoo on his forehead glistened with sweat. He mopped it with his sleeve and displayed his sharpened teeth in a stupid grin.

“Welcome,” he said. “Tú eres muy, muy bonita.”

Magnolia stopped in the entrance with Imulah. The two soldiers behind her crossed their spears in an X, fencing her inside the booth.

“Let’s go,” Imulah said.

She walked into the booth and sat in a chair under a ceiling fan. The breeze felt good, but it blew her dress, exposing her legs. She pressed the material back down.

El Pulpo grinned and stepped over to the rail overlooking the sand pit. It took every bit of resistance to not stab him in the back of the head with the scissors she had taken from her quarters when the others weren’t looking. But she had to play the long game now.

Cheers rang out from the stands as a wide hatch opened in the bulkhead of the hollowed-out airship. The cargo bay hatches looked a lot like the launch bay on Deliverance. Could this have been the same class of ship?

A middle-aged man in faded blue pants and a blood-red shirt strode out into the sand pit. He tipped back his spiked hair and raised a megaphone to his mouth. They all stood and cheered as he spoke in Spanish. When he finished, he repeated the words in English.

“Tonight, Hammerhead, with ninety-nine victories, returns to the Sky Arena.” He raised his other arm into the air and clicked his tongue. “Never in the history of the Sky Arena has a warrior achieved one hundred kills. Will tonight be that night?”

He made a sweeping gesture as a huge warrior strode through the open gate. He walked over to the announcer, giving half the arena a view of the octopus tattoo covering the length of his back. The eight purple arms flexed and stretched with his muscular arms and thighs.

Hammerhead stopped, towering over the funny-looking man, and bellowed out a long, howling scream through the breathing apparatus over his mouth.

The crowd went wild, screaming enthusiastically as he raised two curved axes. He turned slowly, holding the weapons in the air until he faced the booth where Magnolia sat watching.

The warrior wasn’t wearing much: just short black pants with a length of chain for a belt. His thick pectoral muscles were adorned with a tattoo of a hammerhead shark.

El Pulpo smiled and looked over at her as if gauging her sense of awe. Both the announcer and the gladiator looked like clowns, but she kept this opinion to herself.

Another figure entered the arena, and she was not surprised to see the salt-and-pepper hair of Xavier Rodriguez. But she wasn’t prepared to see him wearing only a leather loincloth and boots.

“What the hell did they make you wear?” she whispered.

Magnolia stood and watched X cross the arena. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the lowering sun. Like his opponent, he, too, was covered with markings, but not of ink. His were the scars accrued over a lifetime of battles.

He pulled a chain that was wrapped around his waist and secured with a lock. But where was his weapon? Did they expect him to fight with his bare hands?

She didn’t doubt his fighting skills, but this wasn’t fair. Unless the chain was connected to a ball of spikes.

Armored Cazador soldiers streamed onto a platform that rimmed the fighting arena, about ten feet below the lowest seats. One of the warriors tossed a short sword to the dirt about twenty feet from X. It stuck in the ground.

A low growl came from the other side of the booth, and Magnolia stood as a Cazador soldier pulled Miles into the booth. The dog wore a collar with the spikes turned inward, and he yelped in pain when his handler yanked on the chain.

“Don’t hurt him!” she snarled.

She jumped up from her seat, but el Pulpo blocked her way. He smelled of perspiration and barbecued meat.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Magnolia held his gaze. This was her chance to stab him in his only eye, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. That would be a death sentence, not just for her but for Miles, X, and Rodger, too.

She sat back in the chair and crossed her legs, biding her time. When she looked back down at the sand, she saw that the chain X held wasn’t connected to a ball of spikes, but to a half-naked man.

The crowded screamed with excitement as X pulled the chain.

Magnolia stood again and made her way to the railing. She squinted in the waning sunlight at another gladiator with a nasty scar on his chest, stumbling out into the pit. Rodger Mintel stopped a few paces from X, raised a hand to shield his eyes, and looked up at the booth, his big brown eyes meeting hers.

El Pulpo nudged Magnolia and grinned. “Time for blood, mi amor.”