Captives

FIVE

“Stop looking at Mags and get out here!” X shouted. He pulled Rodger farther in from the gate. They were still three or four steps from the sword the Cazador soldier had thrown out. He needed the weapon if he was to have any chance of defeating the giant roaring at him from halfway across the stadium.

“Come on, man!” he yelled.

Rodger tugged back. “I can’t… can’t see…”

The crowd roared as the announcer introduced the two Hell Divers through his cone-shaped device.

“Entering the Sky Arena to face Hammerhead tonight is sky jumper Rodger Mintel, a.k.a. Rodger Dodger, and Xavier Rodri-i-i-i-igue-e-e-e-ez, known by his own people and his enemies alike as the Immortal.”

This goofball reminded X of one of the old-world announcers from the fighting videos he had seen growing up. He loved watching the mixed-martial-arts fights, but he never thought he would be starring in one.

You won’t be a star if you get whacked…

X slowly turned and scanned the hundreds of Cazadores looking down at them. Behind the warriors, citizens of the Metal Islands stood in front of their seats, screaming and clapping, showing off their pointed teeth.

People were chewing on strips of meat a kid was hawking from a box on a rope around his neck. Of all the strange and perilous situations X had found himself in over the years, this might be the weirdest.

“Kill him, X!” shouted a voice he knew.

X looked up at Magnolia, who had cupped her hands over her mouth. Then he turned to study his opponent, a huge man tattooed with images of an octopus and a shark. He lifted up two massive axes, his massive chest expanding as he sucked in air through his breathing apparatus.

He also wore some sort of optics that looked like old-world night-vision goggles. Hammerhead turned them on X and Rodger and let out another howling roar, pounding the tattoo of the octopus in the center of his chest.

X had fought all sorts of monsters on the surface, from Sirens and huge birds of prey to giant sea snakes and octopuses, to rock monsters. But he had never fought a man with monsters covering his skin. This was going to be interesting.

Shoving the announcer out of the way, Hammerhead started across the field. The little man hit the ground hard, and the crowd laughed as he scrambled away on all fours.

So much for a handshake first, X thought on his run to pick up the sword. Rodger let out a yelp as X tugged on the chain tethering them together.

“Stay behind me!” X yelled.

He grabbed the sword out of the dirt. Hammerhead was still about thirty feet away and running at them, snorting like one of the nightmare hogs back on the Turks and Caicos Islands.

As X backed away, he tried to cut the chain, but the dull blade only pushed the welded links down into the sand. He would have to fight this man while chained to Rodger.

At last, Rodger ran up and joined X, staying just behind as ordered.

“What… do we do?” he stammered.

“Help me bring this fucker down, and stop looking at Mags.” X said. “Oh, and try not to get us killed.” He raised the sword. It was solid, with a sturdy hilt, but the blade was rusty and dull. He would need to jam it into Hammerhead’s face to kill him.

Rodger held up his fists, and X readied himself as their opponent came lumbering across the sand, roaring like a monster out of the wastes. Hammerhead stopped about ten feet from X, who waved Rodger farther behind him. The crowd screamed in delight as the gladiator raised and lowered his axes in a taunt.

“Stay clear of this asshole,” X said, “and try and get this slack around his neck when I attack.”

“Are you s-serious?”

X didn’t have a chance to respond.

Hammerhead, done with his posing, strode toward them. X pushed Rodger away. He took off running, screaming like a small girl and holding the slack of the chain in both hands.

If X were just an observer in the stands, he would have laughed, but being part of the drama was far different. This was a fight to the death—nothing funny about that.

He followed Rodger as they tried to flank Hammerhead, but the guy was not just huge. He was also fast and ran diagonally to cut them off.

X held his ground and twirled the sword. “Over here, you ugly pile of shark shit.”

Hammerhead roved his mechanical optics away from Rodger, the weak link, back to X. The sound that came from his breathing mask was a cross between a cough and a grunt. He pinwheeled his arms with the axes to confuse X on when and at what angle he would strike.

X backed away and waited for the opportune moment. He watched the blades carefully as they sliced the air. When Hammerhead got within striking distance, he swung the left axe, and X brought his sword up to meet the blade.

Steel met steel, and sparks flew.

X jumped backward to avoid a slice meant for his chest.

Hammerhead was even bigger than he looked from a distance, standing nearly a head taller than X and outweighing him by a hundred pounds. He swung again and moved with the blow, slamming his chest into X and knocking him backward.

Grabbing the chain, Hammerhead yanked Rodger off his feet, knocking him to the ground with a thud and dragging him several feet.

X regained his balance instantly and sliced at his opponent’s hand, missing by a finger width. Hammerhead dropped the chain and swung both axes from right to left in an effort to take off his head. The blades came close enough that X felt the wind of their passage through the air.

Hammerhead swung again, this time bringing the axe down as if splitting a round of wood. X rolled left to avoid being split in two and spotted Rodger, standing and holding two yards of slack chain.

But it wasn’t his inept fighting partner that worried X. Behind Rodger, four Cazador soldiers ran in through another gate. Each was armed with a double-headed spear and dressed in heavy, clanking armor. X rolled up into a squat and spotted the leader, who held a shield with an octopus painted across it.

“Rodger, behind you!” X yelled. He sprang to his feet, wincing at the sharp twinge from the pressure on his wounded foot. Ignoring the pain, he ran toward Rodger, who finally turned.

The Cazador soldier carrying the shield moved in front of the others and lunged at Rodger with his spear. Seeing no other option, X stopped and threw his sword.

His aim was true, and the blade penetrated the soldier’s chest armor before he could raise his shield. X was almost surprised at the rusted sword’s performance.

“His spear!” X shouted as the dead Cazador crumpled to the ground.

Rodger grabbed the weapon and tossed it to X. They came together as the other three spearmen closed in on the right and Hammerhead moved in from the left.

It was hard to hear anything over the screaming crowd, but X thought he heard Magnolia yell a warning. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the blur of an axe cartwheeling through the air. He had only an eyeblink in which to move his head aside. The weapon passed so close, he heard the blade whisper past his ear and smack into flesh behind him with a sickening crunch.

Rodger! X’s heart sank at the muffled cry. But before he could turn to check on his partner, Hammerhead was on him. A kick in the chest sent him flying backward, and pain shot through ribs still tender from the battle in el Pulpo’s throne room. He landed on his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

Through the pain, X managed to hold on to the spear, which he jabbed to keep Hammerhead at bay while he got to his feet, gasping for air.

The first thing he saw was Rodger, with all his limbs, and no blades jutting from his flesh. He was picking up the spear of a Cazador soldier. The axe that flew past X had planted square in the soldier’s face, splitting it open like a watermelon. The dead man’s feet jerked once, then went still.

Hammerhead screamed something in Spanish at the other two men, and they slowly backed away. It struck X then, the axe hadn’t missed its mark. The behemoth gladiator wanted the glory of killing the Hell Divers all to himself.

“On me!” X yelled to Rodger.

They came together back to back, spears out. It was time to finish this big bastard.

Keeping low, X hurled the spear at the shark tattoo on Hammerhead’s chest, but the gladiator parried with the flat of his remaining axe, knocking the shaft away. And on he came, swinging the blade before him.

X lunged out of the way, but the giant kicked him in the thigh and grabbed him by the arm. He yanked X back toward him and punched him in the side of the head.

Bees swarmed X’s vision, and he tasted blood from the hole where a tooth had been. He spat it into the sand and drove an elbow up, catching his adversary under the chin. Hammerhead loosened his grip, and X managed to pull free before the giant could use the axe in his other hand to lop off a body part.

X scrambled away and heard the blade thump into the dirt where he had stood only a moment ago. He thrust his spear backward and was surprised to feel it connect.

Turning, he saw that the blade had severed the breathing apparatus, exposing a missing cheek from an old battle. The opening gave him a view of jagged yellow teeth. Hammerhead let out a shriek of pain and stumbled backward, clutching his face.

The crowd was screaming so loud, X barely heard Rodger yelling for help. He returned his attention to the two Cazador soldiers, who were staring in disbelief at their injured champion.

“Down, Rodgeman!” he yelled.

Seizing the moment, X grasped his spear at midshaft, twirling it over his head. The spinning spearhead slit the throat of a shocked Cazador soldier, who dropped his weapon and clamped his hands over the spurting wound.

The other Cazador soldier jabbed his spear at Rodger, but Rodger and X both jabbed back. The man moved from left to right and ducked, but there was nowhere to go.

Rodger stuck him in the chest, penetrating the armor. The Cazador grabbed the shaft and fell back onto the sand, twisting in agony.

“I got him!” Rodger yelled with glee. He looked over at X, and his smile vanished as his eyes focused on the area directly over X’s shoulder.

X turned as a shadow loomed over him.

Hammerhead grabbed him by the neck, lifting him off the ground.

Rodger lunged, but the gladiator shoved him away with his other hand. He hit the dirt and skidded on his back, the chain pulling taut between them.

The crowd roared and laughed, their noise filling the arena. The announcer spoke again in Spanish, bringing more laughter.

X squirmed in the grip of the beast holding him in the air. The insectoid optics peered at him as if he were a specimen being examined under a microscope. He gasped for air as Hammerhead tightened the grip around his neck. The stench of rotting teeth made X want to puke, but he had to suck in what air he could.

He battered Hammerhead in the ear, over and over, but it was like a gnat biting an elephant. Hammerhead screamed in fury, slinging spittle across X’s face.

Vision narrowing, X could feel his life force draining away. He had only seconds before this guy broke either his windpipe or his neck. He swung his fist again, this time at the buglike optics over Hammerhead’s eyes. The first blow didn’t do much, but the second knocked them lose. Bulging, bloodshot eyes stared back at X. Hammerhead dropped him to the ground and brought up his hands to shield his eyes from the setting sun.

X lay in the sand for a moment, gasping.

“I’m coming!” Rodger yelled. Jumping on Hammerhead’s back, he looped the chain around the thick neck and hung on. X felt the chain tugging, but he could do nothing except suck in air.

Hammerhead clawed at Rodger with his free hand, the other one still covering his eyes. He bucked and twisted, but Rodger clung tight with his legs.

X finally managed to push himself up on one knee, but he was so light-headed, he fell back onto his belly. He couldn’t get enough air, and he felt the slick of blood in his boot from the reopened bullet wound.

Get up, old man.

“Help me!” Rodger yelled.

X saw a double-headed spear half covered by sand. Grabbing it, he pushed himself to his feet. He staggered slightly, listening to the screams and wails of the fans. Everyone in the arena was on their feet—even el Pulpo, who watched from the balcony of his booth. Magnolia was by his side, and nestled beside her was a dog.

Miles, I’m coming for you, boy.

X broke the spear shaft over his knee and raised the two short spears.

Hammerhead had finally managed to get a hand on Rodger and had him by the beard.

“Hey, Smiley!” X yelled. “Got something for you!”

The broad, ugly face turned just as X jammed a spear blade into Hammerhead’s gut and left it there. He howled in pain, letting go of Rodger, who kept doggedly pulling on the chain.

X plunged the second spear into Hammerhead’s chest, just above the heart. The shark tattoo quickly disappeared beneath a spreading patch of crimson. The giant dropped to his knees and then onto his back, pinning Rodger to the ground.

Panting, X staggered over.

The crowd suddenly went silent, and X glanced up to see el Pulpo raise his hands in the air, grab the railing, and drop to the sand. The stadium filled with the clicking of ten thousand teeth.

Dozens of warriors ducked under opening gates and swarmed the field to surround their king. X plucked the two spears out of Hammerhead’s limp body and turned to face the approaching warriors as they formed a cordon around him and the dead gladiator.

“X,” said a muffled voice. “Get this guy off me.”

Swords and spear tips bristled toward X, and one man drew a handgun. X hesitated and looked up at Magnolia. She nodded at him—confirmation that this wasn’t the time and place to make their stand. After another moment’s pause, he dropped the shafts. Then he bent down and pushed the gigantic corpse off Rodger.

“You okay?” he asked as Rodger tried to slither free.

The crowd went back to screaming, and a chant started to ring out. X ignored the din around him and reached down to help his friend. Rodger, flushed but apparently uninjured, sucked in a long breath and grabbed his outstretched hand.

The chants intensified, and X finally realized what these people were yelling.

“¡Inmortal! ¡Inmortal! ¡Inmortal!”

“Commander Everhart, I don’t have you on the schedule for access,” said Monk. The militia sentry stood with another guard, O’Toole, in front of the hatch to Deliverance’s launch bay and weapons lockers.

“I have my key card,” Michael said, fishing it out of his pocket.

“Sorry, sir, but protocol has changed,” said O’Toole. The fit, likable militia soldier had grown a beard since Michael saw him last.

“I’m not here for weapons,” Michael said. “I just need access to the restricted archives again.”

After clearing his throat, Monk said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you will need clearance from Sergeant Sloan or Lieutenant Mitchells. Our orders are to keep this area secure unless someone has specified clearance.”

The two guards took their job of protecting the nuclear arsenal and weapons locker seriously, and while Michael respected that, he was losing his patience, especially when Monk glanced at his arm stump. He was really getting sick of all the staring.

“Go ahead and radio Lieutenant Mitchells,” Michael said. “I just talked to him—didn’t realize I would need clearance to get to the archives.”

“Give us a minute, sir,” O’Toole said.

Monk pulled out his walkie-talkie and put the order in, and after several minutes of pacing, they finally got a response from Ensign Ada Winslow that Les was now meeting with Sergeant Sloan.

Michael shook his head, frustrated. A phantom pain had set in, and he considered heading back to the medical ward for some pharmaceutical relief.

You can handle this, remember, Michael?

He gritted his teeth. Counting helped him focus on something other than the agonizing pain, but it also reminded him that time was going by.

Since he could remember, there had always been a clock in his subconscious, ticking ever closer to doomsday. Right now, that clock was ticking for X, Mags, and Miles, and there was only one thing he could do for them right now.

“Let’s just let him through,” O’Toole said.

“What? We have specific orders,” Monk replied quietly, turning his back to Michael.

“He’s a Hell Diver.”

The hatch clicked, and both men stepped away. A white glow emanated from the other side, coalescing into a human shape. The dark-skinned figure, dressed in creaseless pants and a suit jacket, stood inside the launch bay. He had a neat beard and short-cropped hair. The man—or hologram, to be precise—made Michael smile.

“What the hell!” Monk said. “I thought you were—”

“The captain ordered his reactivation,” Michael said. “Good to have you back, Timothy.”

“Thank you, Commander. It’s good to see you. Samson said that you wanted to see me.”

“Yes. Follow me.” Now that the hatch had opened, Michael didn’t wait for permission. He simply nodded at O’Toole and Monk, who stepped aside to let him into the launch bay. The hatch closed behind them, sealing with a loud click that echoed throughout the vaulted space.

“I’m only fifty-nine percent operational,” Timothy said, “but I should be one hundred percent within the hour and will have accessed the thousands of new files on the mainframe.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What’s the last communication you had with your counterpart on the Sea Wolf?”

“One moment while I scan for the transmissions.”

Michael led them toward the Combat Information Center belowdecks, taking the staircase down to where he and Layla had their “date” a week ago. The click of his boots on the rungs reminded him of the final message from X.

By the time you hear this, we will likely be dead. But when you do come, prepare to face a brutal enemy—worse than the Sirens. Avenge Miles. Avenge Magnolia, and promise me that when you make this humanity’s future, you won’t resort to barbarism like the Cazadores. I dived so humanity would survive. I dived for this place. I love you, Tin. Be good, fight hard, and remember what you told me: Accept your past without regrets. Handle your present with confidence. Face your future without fear. I’ll always be here for you in spirit, kid.

The message sent a chill of pride and dread through Michael. By the time they got down to the dashboard of computer equipment, Timothy had finished his scan.

“The last transmission we received from my counterpart was from three days ago,” he said. “Shall I play it for you?”

Michael nodded.

“This is Timothy Pepper of the Sea Wolf. I’m running on backup power and will be going idle soon. My vessel has been captured by the Cazadores and is being taken to a tower that appears to be the capitol of the Metal Islands. I have not heard from X or Magnolia for thirty-six hours now and suspect they are either captured or dead…”

Michael sat down and slumped in the chair.

“I’ve listened to the Cazadores on board for any information on their fate, but so far they have spoken only of a warrior who will not die. I’ve tried tapping into the radio transmissions, but there are very few. These people seem to communicate purely by word of mouth.”

There was a pause. Then, “The mechanics working on the ship continue to speak of a man from the sky—the same man that they say cannot die.”

“X!” Michael said. “It’s got to be X.”

The hologram of Timothy Pepper on Deliverance scratched his beard. “That would be a logical assumption, Commander.”

“Is that the last transmission?” Michael asked.

A nod from Timothy.

“Damn.” Michael had hoped Timothy might be able to access something that Les and the other officers on the bridge couldn’t.

He pulled out his key card and swiped it across the monitor, bringing the computer online.

“I need you to do some research for me,” Michael said. “I need you to dig up every file you can find on the AI defectors and Red Sphere.”

“One moment, sir.” Timothy’s hologram flickered in and out as he worked, and Michael used the opportunity to open the hatches covering the portholes. Storm clouds churned outside Deliverance—the same dispiriting sight he was used to seeing. But it was the view of the Hive that gave him the chills.

Or perhaps that was from the pain firing up his shoulder and neck and into his temple. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw hundreds of porthole windows covered by salvaged hatches on the side of the Hive. People had already painted most of them with fluffy clouds and blue skies. But a few hadn’t been replaced.

Several portholes glowed from interior lamps and lights, providing a view inside the quarters where families dwelled on the upper decks. He was too far away to recognize any of them, but something about seeing the people inside their homes made him feel at home. He had been fighting to save this place his entire adult life.

Now he had a chance to create a new home—a home where the sun shone. Part of him still didn’t believe it, but the Metal Islands were real, and Michael knew that they couldn’t take the paradise from the Cazadores with the airships, a naval warship, the Hell Divers, and the militia soldiers. They needed something else, something that would involve a major risk. But if he could pull this off, it had the potential to change everything.

“I’ve finished my scan and have recovered one hundred two files received from the Sea Wolf about Red Sphere and the defectors, otherwise known as model DEF-Nine,” Timothy said. “What would you like to know?”

“I want to see their internal makeup and their programming.”

“Let me pull those up. But, Commander, if I may, why are you asking this?”

Michael paused, recalling a memory of playing with a vacuum robot in his old quarters when X had come home with a bag of noodles, not long after his father perished on a dive.

“When I was a kid, while the other kids were playing with games, I played with robots,” Michael said. “Building them, taking them apart.”

“With all due respect, Commander, DEF-Nine units, or what you call defectors, aren’t cleaning machines. They are killing machines.”

“And like anything designed by humans, they will have a weakness or a glitch. Even you have them, Timothy.”

“Touché, sir.”

Michael twisted around in his seat and said, “I just have to find it, and if I’m right, then maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to control them.”