Nicholas Smith - Hell Divers

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.