Nicholas Smith - Hell Divers

“Guy had it coming,” Marv said, running the rag over the counter one more time. “But you’re picking up his tab since you’re the reason he didn’t pay.”

“Yeah. No problem,” X replied, downing a final drink. He tossed his credit voucher onto the table and waited for Marv to run it. “Don’t happen to know who that guy was, do you?”

“Only been here a few times.” Marv slid the voucher back to X, then looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Trey? No, Travis. I think his name’s Travis. Yeah, that’s it.”

X had known a Travis once, the son of a former diver on Team Angel. Had that kid really grown up to be such a waste of space? X had never bothered to look in on him after his father died. Was that what he was mumbling about?

His mind was pleasantly clouded from the ’shine. It was time for him to go home. In a few short hours, he would meet his new team—more divers that he would likely be leading to their death.

Travis Eddie stumbled down the rungs to the lower decks, putting a hand to the goose egg on his forehead. He was drunk and angry—an unstable combination. He felt at the threshold of his self-control, but he couldn’t let the gasket blow. He had to stay in control. With two strikes on his record, he was one away from the brig. And if he ended up there, he could never help the lower-deckers or his brother. Rotting away down here was unendurable, but the thought of the dark gallows—now, that made him shudder.

No. He was not going out like that. Not before he saw some changes on the ship.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and flicked a dreadlock over his shoulder. The moment he opened the hatch to the first compartment, he heard the sporadic coughing of sick passengers.

Hundreds of bunks lined each wall as far as he could see. Some were surrounded by metal partitions; others were blocked off by nothing more substantial than blankets thrown over makeshift clothing racks. For most, a thin piece of muslin cloth was the only privacy they had from the other bunks.

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.