Nicholas Smith - Hell Divers

“ Ares is a strong ship. They could still be afloat.”

“Aye,” Ash replied. “But for how long?” Still peering into the storm, she said, “What did Samson say?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Don’t bother.” She already knew the answer. The airships were built to survive storms, but only for a limited time. It didn’t take many direct lightning strikes to rupture a gas bladder. Worse, the lightning could fry the extensive electrical network snaking through the bowels of the ships. Either event would be catastrophic.

Ash felt the eyes of her crew on her. Everyone was looking to her for orders. The moment she saw the storm, she had made her decision. Now it was time to give the hardest order of her command. She hated to say it, but Cruise was right: she couldn’t risk the Hive to save Ares .

“The captains before me didn’t keep the Hive in the sky by taking unnecessary risks,” Ash said. Turning from the monitor, she looked toward her navigation officers. “Ryan, Hunt, keep us on the edge of the storm. Do not—I repeat, do not— enter without my command. I don’t care if the Ares is ten feet on the other side.”

Both ensigns acknowledged with short nods.

“Jordan, tell our comm team to keep hailing Ares . I want to know the minute we hear anything.”

“Aye, Captain,” he replied.

Ash spied a hint of a frown forming on Jordan’s face. Like the phantom ship outline, it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Travis stopped at a row of tomato plants in Compartment 1 and spat into the first pot. The dirt was moist with the saliva of other lower-deckers. They all worked together down here, using every resource they could to survive. Manure from the livestock that still remained became fertilizer for the plants growing under the lights. Hides and fur from slaughtered animals became clothing. He had a blanket made of rabbit furs, and his leather shoelaces were from a hog killed years ago. Nothing went to waste. Everything was used and reused.

He passed hundreds of cages of squawking chickens and chirping guinea pigs, and the platoons of workers tending the precious livestock. Captain Ash had apportioned these animals to the lower-deckers after the food riots nearly two years ago. It was a measure to prevent future rebellions, but only a Band-Aid on a bigger problem. Extra rations of eggs and guinea pig meat wouldn’t begin to get at the real needs belowdecks.

Travis followed a line of passengers toward the two Militia soldiers standing guard at the stairs leading up. Some lower-deckers were going to work, others to the trading post to barter their produce. He wasn’t doing either. He was on his way to the brig, to visit his brother.

The line surged forward, and Travis pulled out his ID. His head pounded from a migraine that he couldn’t shake. The stench was starting to get to him again. Passing a pen of hogs, he coughed into the sleeve of his trench coat.

When he finally got to the front of the line, he thought he was going to puke. He handed his ID to the guard on his right.

“What’s your business?”

Travis pulled a piece of paper authorizing access to the brig and gave it to the man. “I’m visiting someone.”

The sentry held the ID under the bank of lights overhead and glanced at Travis, then studied the piece of paper. He gave both back to Travis and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Get moving.”

Travis climbed the steps and negotiated the maze of corridors to get across the ship. He could have done it blindfolded if he wanted. He knew each passage, nook, and cul-de-sac by heart.

Passing the Wingman Tavern, he felt his anger rise. He hadn’t realized it in his state of intoxication, but the HD who had smashed his head into the bar was Xavier Rodriguez, the most infamous diver on the ship. Travis’ father, Ron, had dived with Xavier almost fifteen years ago, but Xavier probably wouldn’t have remembered him, since he died ten jumps in. Just enough dives to earn Travis and his mother quarters abovedecks. But when the cough killed her, Travis joined Alex and his other friends down here. He had lived in Compartment 1 ever since, working as an electrician whenever there was work to be had.

He took a right at the junction. The corridor was empty except for a few soldiers coming from Militia Headquarters. The brig was the second door past the entrance to the HQ. Stopping outside, he brushed his dreadlocks over his shoulder. He entered the dimly lit room, furnished only with two chairs, and approached the front window.

A female guard, her blonde hair in a bun, glanced up at him from the other side, brushed the breadcrumbs off her gray uniform, and got up.

“Travis Eddie to see inmate Raphael Eddie.” He held his authorization slip and ID against the window, and she took a look.

“Wait here,” she said.

Travis watched her open the door to her booth and step into a narrow passageway. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a man wearing a black hoodie walked into the guard booth. Hands shackled in front of him, eyes roving, he shuffled forward. He seemed oddly disoriented.

“You got ten minutes,” the guard said, shutting the door with a thud that made the hooded man flinch. He looked at the door, then back at the glass window. His face was shadowed, but Travis could see the bony outline of his cheeks.

“That you, Trav?” the man whispered in a voice that sounded too weak to be Raphael. He stepped forward, raised his bound hands, and pulled the hoodie back. Thin black hair fell over his shoulders, and dark bags rimmed his eyes. He squinted into the light and blinked rapidly.

Only six months had passed since he last saw Raphael, but Travis hardly recognized the man standing before him. He wanted to cry out at the sight.

“Yeah, bro, it’s me,” Travis said. “Guess they aren’t treating you all that well in there.”

Raphael coughed, and a pained grin formed on his dry lips. “That’s what happens when you help lead a riot. They don’t waste rations on us, you know?”

Travis hardly noticed himself nodding. He was still shocked to see the frail man in front of him. The brother he remembered was strong, with broad shoulders and thick black hair like his.

“How are things out there, little brother?” Raphael asked. His right eye twitched as he sat down in the chair.

For months now, Travis had considered what he would say to Raphael, repeating the words over and over in his head before he went to bed each night. Now he couldn’t remember them.

“Things are bad,” Travis finally said. The Militia would be listening, but he wasn’t going to lie. “Rations are still too low, and the one doctor Captain Ash assigned to the lower decks can’t keep up. People are suffering worse than ever before.”

Raphael stared ahead vacantly. His right eye twitched every few seconds, and he shivered in his chair. Travis wasn’t sure he was even listening.

“You only got two more years in here,” he said. “That’s nothing, man. When you get out, I’ll have a jar of ’shine and a chicken for you—a whole chicken! I’ve been saving credits.”

“Remember what Mom used to tell us?” Raphael blurted. “About the fall of Babylon and the end of the world?”

Travis thought back, the pained memories ricocheting through his mind. He could hardly remember her dark-brown eyes, let alone her stories.

“She was right, little brother,” Raphael said, rocking a little in his chair now. “We brought this on ourselves. The human race was never supposed to live in the sky. We were supposed to die down there.” He pointed a curled, yellowed fingernail at the floor.

A heavyset male guard opened the door and stepped inside the room. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “You got one minute left.”