Ghosts

EIGHT

Michael placed his helmet in his locker and traced his finger over the Raptor logo. Nothing in his young life had ever meant so much to him. The symbol represented more than his team—it was the seal that bound the divers together in life and death. His father and X had been Raptors, and when Michael dived, he felt as if they were with him.

He shut the door and looked for Layla. The launch bay was teeming with activity, and it took him a moment to find her, standing at the edge of the growing crowd of techs and divers. Michael wasn’t the only one anxious to get back out there. He caught her eye and waved her over to the lockers.

“We should be going,” she said. “Not Weaver and definitely not Andrew. She’s our teammate, not theirs. They don’t care if she lives or dies.”

He shook his head. “They care.”

She reached out and grazed his arm with her fingers. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know they care. I’m just so frustrated and confused.”

They stood there in silence for a few moments, watching the activity in the bay. It had been a few weeks since the launch tubes last opened. Divers tended to get antsy between dives. Everyone here was on edge and eager to get started. Even the civilians in the corridor beyond the launch bay were asking questions—questions that no one was going to answer.

While Weaver and Andrew geared up, Michael made his decision. He might not be able to rescue Magnolia, but there was something he had to do.

He kissed Layla on the cheek and turned away.

“You’re not going to stick around?” she asked. She scuffed the floor with her boot, and her eyes flicked upward. Layla didn’t play poker with the other divers, but if she ever did, Michael would be able to read her like a book.

He knew what was coming next.

“You’re running away, aren’t you? Going wherever it is you go when you’re upset. Without me. You should be telling Jordan to fuck himself and then leading a full team to the surface.” She was speaking faster now. “You’re the commander of Team Raptor, Michael.”

Michael closed his eyes to rein in his temper. It always came back to some variation on the same old fight. Layla was passionate and impulsive. She did whatever she believed was right, and thought about the consequences later if she thought about them at all. He admired that about her, but sometimes it made him want to scream. Disobeying the captain could result in their both being recalled from duty—or worse, get them a stint in the stockade.

“I’m talking to you, Michael Everhart,” Layla said.

“And you’re being unreasonable, Layla Brower. We have to pick our battles. You and I both agreed to that.”

Apparently, his calm, logical approach had been the wrong tactic. Her eyes were bright with anger, but she didn’t answer.

“There’s something I have to do,” he said, running out of both time and patience. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Whatever,” Layla said. Her eyes homed in on her launch tube. That made Michael pause. He couldn’t leave her here. No doubt, she would bribe one of the techs to let her dive, or stow away in one of the drop crates, or do something else equally rash.

“You want to come with me?”

Layla’s eyes flitted to his. “Where are you going?”

“Trust me?”

She hesitated less than a second. “Yes.”

He smiled, relieved. “Okay. I… okay. Let’s get out of here.”

They walked through a throng of variously colored coveralls: engineers in red, technicians in yellow, Hell Divers in black. Several militia soldiers stood at the doors, but a crowd was already forming outside. Launches were always off-limits to civilians, but that didn’t stop them from trying to sneak a glance.

Michael scanned the room for Captain Jordan. It appeared that he hadn’t shown up for this one. Unlike Captain Ash, he didn’t like venturing outside the bridge, especially to the lower decks or the launch bay. Michael couldn’t even remember the last time the captain had been present for a launch.

In Captain Jordan’s place, Katrina walked into the bay and ordered the doors shut. She was an older version of Layla: tough, smart, and stubborn. He had heard that Katrina was once romantically involved with X, but looking at her now, in her sleek white uniform and with her hair pulled back in a severe braid, Michael couldn’t imagine it.

He and Layla walked around a cluster of technicians working on Weaver’s tube. Weaver was loading a shell into the open break of his blaster. Extra shells and magazines for his assault rifle stuck out of his vest. Michael didn’t need to ask why he looked as if he was preparing to go to war. They all had heard the audio from the Hilltop Bastion.

Weaver regarded them both with a nod. He dropped a flare into the weapon and snapped the break shut.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If Magnolia’s down there, I’ll find her. But don’t hold your breath. Even if she survived the turbofans…”

Layla dropped Michael’s hand and cut Weaver off. “She’s alive, I know it. I can feel it in my heart.”

Weaver holstered the blaster and scratched the back of his ear. “I hope you’re right.”

Michael reached out to shake Weaver’s hand. “Good luck, sir.”

“Damn, I hate it when people say that. Son, it’s not luck. It’s experience.”

Michael wanted to remind Weaver how his father had died, how X had been lost despite being the most experienced Hell Diver in the history of the Hive, but now wasn’t the time.

They shook hands and parted. A few tubes down, Andrew was bending over a box of supplies. He held up an assault rifle with the Raptor logo on the side.

“Yo, Mikey. Mind if I borrow your gun?”

“As long as you bring it back,” Michael said. He didn’t really want to say yes. He hadn’t forgotten the way Andrew used to bully him when they were kids. Then again, if Andrew hadn’t kept flicking Michael’s tinfoil hat off his head, Layla wouldn’t have lost her temper and kicked him in the nuts. Michael almost smiled at the memory. That had been the day he realized that Layla liked him.

They all had matured over the past decade. Mostly. Andrew was still a meathead, but they were all Hell Divers now. Diving had a way of bringing them closer together. They trusted the man or woman in the next drop tube with their lives. Magnolia had proved that when she chose to sever the rope rather than pull them all down.

Andrew was pulling extra magazines from the crate and stuffing them into his vest as Michael and Layla approached.

“You think there are Sirens down there?” he asked.

“Something’s down there,” Michael said. “Let me check one thing before you go.”

He held his hand out, and Andrew handed it over. He raised the rifle toward the bulkhead. On the last dive, his shots had been ever so slightly wide left. He twisted the knob and handed the rifle back to Andrew.

“You see Sirens, you run. You got it?”

Andrew gave a toothy yellow grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring your gun back, Mikey.”

“And Magnolia,” Layla said. “Bring her back, too.”

An enthusiastic voice called from the crowd of technicians and divers. “Hey, wait for me!”

It was Rodger Mintel, carrying his helmet.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing, man?” Michael asked.

“What it looks like.” Rodger stopped at his launch tube. “I’m going with them.”

Andrew stepped in. “Cap said only Weaver and me get to go.”

“Captain Jordan changed his mind.” Katrina was standing behind them, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. The tattooed head of a raptor showed on her forearm.

Layla took a step toward Katrina. “If he’s going, then so am I!”

“We’ve authorized a third diver and selected Rodger,” she said. “We need his engineering experience.”

Rodger tucked something into his vest pocket so quickly that Michael couldn’t see what it was. He didn’t have to guess why Rodger had volunteered to dive. If Layla were stranded on the surface, nothing short of death would keep Michael from diving. He and some of the other divers had a pool going about when Rodger and Magnolia would finally get together.

He turned his attention back to Katrina. “And what about my experience?”

“Don’t worry, Commander.” Rodger flashed a nervous smile. “I got this.”

“I hold rank,” Michael said, “and I’m respectfully requesting you send me instead.”

Katrina’s sharp gaze fell on him, but he wasn’t intimidated by her tattoos or her reputation. Or the fact that she was the captain’s mistress.

“Captain Jordan has made his decision, Commander.”

“Come on, LT,” Michael said. “We all know you have special powers of persuasion when it comes to the captain.”

“Excuse me?” Katrina said. She put her hands on her hips. “You’re way out of line, Commander.”

Layla squeezed his hand. “Don’t,” she whispered.

Biting the inside of his lip, he held Katrina’s gaze for a few seconds before finally backing down.

Katrina nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She turned away from the divers and cupped her hands over her mouth. “Everyone out! We’re clear for launch!”

The technicians finished their final checks on the three launch tubes while Rodger, Weaver, and Andrew fastened their helmets.

Michael patted Rodger on the back as he stared wistfully at his usual launch tube. This was utter bullshit, but there was nothing he could do about it. They left the room with everyone else and piled into the dark hallway. Michael could hardly see the grimy faces of the lower-deckers in the dim light. Bodies that hadn’t been washed in weeks pressed up against him as he and Layla walked away from the launch bay.

“Where are they diving?” one man asked.

“Why aren’t you going, Commander?” asked another.

Michael turned back to the bay just as the militia guards pulled on the massive doors to seal them shut. Through the narrowing gap, he saw Rodger climb into his tube and throw him a thumbs-up.

Knowing that Rodger cared for Magnolia was reassuring. Perhaps a little bit of love was exactly what this mission needed. That and a miracle.

Rodger stood in his drop tube, listening to the countdown. This was his tenth dive—five short of the magic number. The average was fifteen dives before ending up as a splat on the surface, or a lightning fritter on the Hell Diver highway. Of course, X’s legendary ninety-seven dives had thrown the curve way off. A lot of men and women had to get dead their first dive to balance out his record.

But Rodger didn’t plan on being one of those. Nope, he had two missions right now. One: locate a special section inside the Hilltop Bastion that Jordan wanted him to search. Two: rescue Magnolia and sweep her off her steel-toed boots, if possible. The wood carving inside his vest pocket was supposed to help with the second objective. The piece fit nicely next to the ITC access card Jordan had given him.

In the tubes on either side of his, Andrew and Weaver were likely feeling what Hell Divers described as “the rush.” The other divers were all addicted to it, to varying degrees, but Rodger had never experienced the heady blend of fear and adrenaline. The fear was too strong. Today, though, he felt different as he waited for the glass doors to whisper open and drop him into the hell below. Because today Magnolia was down there, and he was going to bring her home or die trying.

“Thirty seconds,” Ty announced over the channel.

“Copy that,” Weaver replied. “Ready to dive.”

Rodger tried to hold in a belch. He was hungover—or, more accurately, still a little drunk—after last night. The stimulant he had taken this morning was keeping him awake, but it had soured his stomach.

Captain Jordan hadn’t seemed to care, or even notice, when giving Rodger the mission to find the room that housed cryogenic chambers. Jordan hadn’t been forthcoming about what he expected him to find there, but the captain had insisted that he tell no one of the mission until he was on the surface.

Rodger let the belch escape as he contemplated whether being privy to secret information was a good or a bad thing. While he didn’t like Jordan, it was nice to be entrusted with a quest. Never in his life had he been in charge of anything like this. He wouldn’t let the captain down. Nope, he would find this bunker and whatever prizes it held. But first, he would rescue Magnolia.

The red glow swirling in his tube shifted to a cool blue. Klaxons faded in the background. Rodger clamped down on his mouth guard and checked the Velcro flap of the pocket containing Magnolia’s present. His vest was stuffed with magazines for his rifle, flares and shotgun shells for his blaster, and his engineering gear. He wore a duty belt containing everything he would need on the surface.

The voice of Captain Jordan fired over the channel. “Good luck, divers. Remember your objectives and complete the primary mission first.”

Yeah, yeah, Captain. No scavenging for lumber and no searching for lost girls. Asshole!

“We dive so humanity survives,” Weaver said.

Andrew and Rodger both muttered the words along with him.

Rodger’s thoughts turned to his parents, as they always did before a drop. They had hugged him goodbye, but they hadn’t said the actual word. They never said goodbye; they always said, “Catch ya later.”

He smiled. Pop’s birthday was coming up soon. Maybe Rodger would bring him back something from the surface. In his heart, he was hoping to bring back his future bride, but it was too early even to voice such hopes. Still, he hoped that someday soon he would be able to introduce Magnolia to his folks. He was sure they would love her as much as…

“Prepare for launch,” said Ty’s voice.

Rodger wrapped his arms around his chest as the final warning beeped. The glass floor opened just as he locked his gloved fingers together. It was an effort to keep from flailing at the sides of the tube as he fell—something he had done the first six dives.

He felt a moment of numbness as the sky opened up below him. He clenched his muscles—a reflex the other divers had tried to train out of him. No matter how many times they told him to dive loose, he tensed up like a wound clock spring.

As he fell, he arched and positioned his body on the mattress of air so he could see the Hive. The turtle-like hulk seemed to float effortlessly. He scanned the turbofans, almost afraid to look, but they whirred too fast for him to spot any blood on them. An instant later, crosswinds sent him tumbling away from the view.

To the east, lightning cut through the darkness. It was hard to gauge how far away the storm was, but the bolts were impressive. Long ago, when he was in school, he had read that lightning could be hotter than the surface of the sun. He hadn’t believed it until he saw his childhood friend Hal struck on a dive. The blast had raced through his body, blowing out his fingers and the bottoms of his feet and taking off the top of his skull.

Rodger blinked away the memory of Hal’s smoldering remains and craned his neck one last time to see the airship.

“Catch ya later, Mom and Pop,” Rodger whispered as the ship vanished.

He shifted his attention to his HUD. The readings were all normal. They were at eighteen thousand feet and falling through clear skies.

Weaver and Andrew had fanned out in intervals of a thousand feet. Rodger saw the glow of Weaver’s battery unit to the west. They all were diving in the stable falling position that divers used in fair weather: arms loosely out, elbows and knees bent at right angles. As Rodger blasted through the clouds, he caught a glimpse of lightning below. The wall of black clouds disguised the strike, and the visible bolt quickly waned, leaving a residue of blue light.

On his HUD, the altitude ticked down. They were already down to fifteen thousand feet, and he was falling at just under a hundred miles an hour.

Static crackled over the open channel. “Rodger Dodger, Pipe, be ready to nosedive. Looks like a layer of electrical activity pushing in below.”

The dark clouds were deceiving, like a clean bandage hiding an infected wound. Sometimes, it was hard to tell exactly what you were falling toward, until it was too late.

Another pocket of crosswinds took Rodger, sending him spinning toward Weaver.

“Watch it!” The words were difficult to make out over the crackling static.

Rodger brought his arms to his sides, kicked his boots together, and speared through the sky in a headfirst dive, veering away from Weaver, who was still getting head-down.

As Rodger looked down, the floor of clouds lit up with bright strikes. His electronics suddenly turned to gibberish. His HUD winked on and off.

Shit. NOT good!

A wave of nausea boiled up from his guts. He could taste the bile. It was almost as nasty as the herbal slime his mom forced him to drink whenever he was sick. The comm channel broke into a jumble of words and static. Whatever Weaver was trying to say, Rodger couldn’t hear him. He focused on trying not to puke as he cut through the clouds like Superman.

“We dive so humanity survives!” he cried. “I’m coming, Magnolia!”