Ghosts

FOUR

Jordan kept his sweaty hands on the wheel, and his eyes on the storm. Either the team he sent topside would fix the rudders and save the ship, or they would die up there in the storm. Either way, there was nothing he could do now but stay the course he had set.

“Sir?” It was Katrina’s voice.

Jordan looked over his shoulder at her. Commander Rick Weaver stood at the top of the bridge looking down, waiting for orders. He nodded at the Hell Divers and then glanced back to Katrina.

She unclipped her harness and staggered forward as another tremor hit the ship. Whatever she had to say, she didn’t want others to hear.

He gripped the wheel tighter and glanced at the monitor to his right. A countdown ticked on screen. They had just over thirty minutes to get the rudders back online before the storm swallowed the ship. The Hive might survive for a few hours in the electric soup, but the divers would not.

“Sir, I just got word that we’re picking up a transmission from the surface,” Katrina said.

Jordan felt his heart kick. Who had leaked that intel? His eyes swept the bridge and found Hunt. The ensign avoided Jordan’s gaze, answering his question. It was a reminder that he couldn’t trust anyone but himself and Katrina. It seemed Magnolia wasn’t the only person Jordan would have to deal with.

“What kind of transmission?” he asked calmly.

“An SOS, sir.”

Jordan had prepared for this moment for years, ever since they intercepted the first transmission from X, but it had come at the worst time. She would hate him for keeping this secret from her. She might even leave him. He could endure a lot, but not the thought of losing her. “Kat, I’m—”

“I think this one could be the real deal, sir,” she continued. “The Hilltop Bastion was an ITC bunker, one of the most advanced they ever built.”

Jordan held back a sigh of relief. Hunt hadn’t betrayed him after all. His secret about X was still safe. For now.

“Captain Ash marked the location as an area to explore if we ever made it this far east,” Katrina said eagerly. “If their SOS is still transmitting, then maybe someone’s still down there. I think—”

“Maria Ash is no longer captain, Lieutenant.”

Several officers on the bridge looked up from their monitors. Katrina stopped talking, her lips a tight line as she stared at him.

“We’re holding steady, sir,” Hunt said. “Should I shut off the alarms?”

Jordan checked the screen to his right. They were sailing on the edge of the storm now. Warning sensors continued to beep, and the emergency alarm still wailed, but for now they were in the clear.

“Shut off the alarms, but instruct all noncritical personal to stay in their shelters,” Jordan said, knowing that most of the citizens wouldn’t listen and would just go on with life.

The wail of the emergency siren waned, and a recorded voice transmitted over the public-address system. “All noncritical personal, please remain in your designated areas.”

Jordan used the moment of calm to scan the bridge. The entire room was spotless, from the white tile floor to the walls and the pod stations. His uniform, like those of his crew, was also white, continuing an age-old custom from the days when ships sailed on water instead of air. Unlike the rest of the ship, the bridge was lit with LEDs, although the lights were currently dim because of the energy curtailment.

Captain Ash had gone to great lengths to make sure this was a place of order amid the chaos. It was one tradition of hers that Jordan proudly carried on.

He breathed in air that smelled of bleach. As he turned back to the wheel, his eyes were drawn to the surface map displayed on one of the monitors. Where Ash had seen a new future, Jordan saw only a delusional fantasy. There was no hope for a new home on land. Their only hope for survival was in the sky, and right now it was riding on the work of three Hell Divers.

“Michael and his team are in position, sir,” Katrina said. “Should we prep a second team to scout for Hilltop Bastion?”

“No.” His voice was firm, and it drew a scowl from Katrina. “Once we fix the rudders and get clear of this storm, I’ll consider allocating resources to investigate this mysterious signal.”

“If you won’t do this, Leon, I’ll go down there myself,” she said, unclipping her harness and standing up.

Jordan’s eyes widened. She had always been feisty, but this was open insubordination.

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” he ordered.

She took a step forward, then another, her lips quivering. Jordan felt the gaze of every staff member on the bridge watching them.

“If there is something down there, we need to check it out. For the sake of our child…”

Jordan’s eyes flitted to her stomach and then to the faces of his crew. They had heard. And within the hour, everyone on the ship would know.

He shook his head in frustration. “There is absolutely no evidence of human life on the surface. Captain Ash risked the ship and every soul aboard in pursuit of a fairy tale. I’ve kept us alive by not making that same mistake.”

“We can’t live up here forever,” Katrina said.

“There is nothing down there, Lieutenant. But I’ll tell you what: if we find a way out of this storm, I’ll send a team down there to check those coordinates out, just to prove it to you.”

Rodger Mintel was convinced he was the only one of his kind. He had always felt in his bones that he was different. Most of his friends and even his fellow divers thought him a little odd. For one thing, he loved to build things out of wood. Oak, if he could get it. Most softer woods had crumbled over the years. He had scavenged broken furniture from the Hive and even found whole planks on the surface during his dives. Once, trees had thrived on the planet below. Now they lived on in his creations.

He had just returned from the launch bay and was standing in the stall his family owned, looking at his creations: animals, figurines of people, and even a replica of the Hive. Most of the ship’s inhabitants couldn’t care less about his pieces, but he had a few customers who appreciated his art. Some of them even brought him furniture to fix from time to time. It wasn’t how the Mintel family made a living, but it did add some extra credits to their account.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or just stand there?”

His father glanced up from the clock he was making in the workshop behind the stall, and took off his spectacles. The real family business had been passed on from generation to generation, but it would stop with his father. Someone else would have to become the ship’s clock and key maker. Rodger had opted to become an engineer, and then a Hell Diver.

“You know I can’t tell you anything, Pops. Besides, you’re supposed to be in the shelter with the rest of the noncritical staff.”

“Noncritical. Pish.” He laughed at the very idea. “I have clocks to finish. Without the sun, they’re the only way to know the real time.”

Another voice came from the back of their shop. “Cole, leave him alone. You know he can’t tell us anything.”

Both Rodger and his father turned to face Bernie, the matriarch of their little family. She walked into the workshop and set a wooden bowl of fruit down on Cole’s desk.

“You’re supposed to be in the shelter, too,” Rodger said.

“Oh, stop, Rodge. The Mintel family doesn’t cower.” She smiled and pointed at the apples. “Eat something. You’re as skinny as a pole.”

Rodger grinned back. “Thanks, Mom.”

He was one of the luckier citizens of the Hive: both his parents were still alive—although he wasn’t sure how much longer this would be true. They both were in their fifties, and the years had not been especially kind to them.

Cole sat back down, moaning from the aches that plagued his body. Bernie took a seat at the desk beside his and brushed her thinning gray hair back over her shoulder. She was a two-time cancer survivor, and Rodger was perpetually afraid that it would come back and finish the job.

“Sit down, Rodge. You need your energy, especially if they’re planning to send you back out there again.”

Rodger sat, looking warily at his mother. “Who said anything about that?”

Without looking up from his clock, Cole said, “Your coveralls speak volumes.”

Rodger glanced down at his black jumpsuit and laughed. “Oops.” He plucked a small red apple from the bowl he had made for his mom on her fiftieth birthday. He had brought the wood back from a dive in a green zone. His team had discovered an entire warehouse filled with lumber, and Rodger had insisted on bringing some back. Magnolia had given him hell for that, rolling her eyes and telling him to leave the wood and grab something useful, such as plastic.

It was then that Rodger had taken a real liking to Magnolia. His thoughts were filled with the girl with blue highlights in her black hair—the girl who never seemed to pay attention to him. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. As soon as she was back from fixing the rudders, he was going to tell her how he felt.

He picked up his carving knife, but instead of cutting into the apple, he went to work on a present for Magnolia. He had just the thing in mind.

As Commander Rick Weaver left the bridge, his mind was filled with questions about the transmission he had overheard Captain Jordan and his XO whispering about. Jordan probably wouldn’t tell the Hell Divers anything, and he certainly wouldn’t ask for their opinions. Everyone knew that the only reason he listened to Katrina’s advice was because he was sleeping with her. It was obvious to most everyone but them, apparently.

Weaver trusted only one person on the ship for answers, and he had only a short time to sneak away and find her. Ten years ago, his home had come crashing to the ground, killing everyone he loved. He alone had survived, and it had changed him.

The hostile ruins of Hades had thrown everything at him, but in the end, he had beaten the wastelands. Captain Maria Ash had welcomed him to the Hive, and he had done his best to honor her memory and be a good role model for the other divers. But this place had never felt like home. It shouldn’t feel like home. The human race belonged on the surface, and someday it would return.

Shortly after coming to the Hive, Weaver had heard rumors of a prophecy originating on the lower decks. He had traced those rumors back to their source. According to the prophecy, a man would come and lead them to their true home, on the planet’s surface. For whatever reason, Captain Ash had believed in the prophecy. Weaver didn’t know what to believe, and maybe that was why he kept coming back here.

He hurried through the passages, darting an occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure no one from command was following him. Jordan would have his head on a pike for going belowdecks. He dug in his pocket and felt for the old-world coin that seemed to bring him luck. He could use some right now.

The coast looked clear, but he drew up the hood on his sweatshirt and kept his head down to avoid inquisitive gazes. Most of the lower-deckers had emerged from their shelters and gotten back to their daily lives. For these people, the turbulence was just another interruption in their routines.

Weaver’s fellow divers, when not working, usually stuck to the upper decks, playing cards and drinking shine. He had earned a reputation as a formidable card player, but few knew that he spent all his spare credits on food and medicines for lower-deckers who couldn’t afford them. Helping the sick and needy, especially here in the third communal space, where the sickest and most disadvantaged people lived, was his way of holding on to hope. But today he wasn’t here to help them. He was here for information.

As he climbed down the final ladder to the entrance to the barracks that housed over a hundred lower-deckers, a militia guard approached. Weaver kept moving purposefully, a worker intent on the task at hand. It seemed to work, and the guard didn’t call after him.

Like the trading post, the communal area was one open space. He pulled a bandanna over his mouth and nose before entering. Coughing and sporadic shouts echoed through the space. He walked inside and took a right at the first alley. Twenty families lived here in slots not much bigger than his launch tube, each habitation cordoned off by thin curtains hanging from cord or rusted drape rods.

Weaver knew exactly how many steps would get him to his destination. Because of the power curtailment, the banks of overhead lights were dark, and the heating units the engineers had hooked up to the boiler were dormant. The flicker of candles guided him through the cold space.

Stopping midway down the aisle, he pulled back a faded red curtain to reveal an empty bunk. The bed and the shelf next to it were covered with books and candles, but the woman he had come to see was gone.

“Christ,” Weaver muttered.

“I thought you weren’t big on him anymore.”

Weaver spun around to see Janga, in a coat stitched together from colorful rags. Her waist-length gray hair was neatly combed. She made her living selling herbs and tinctures, but Weaver hadn’t come here to buy a bottle of her “medicine.”

“What can I do for you, Commander? I was just about to head up to the trading post before they turn the alarms back on.”

“I can’t stay long anyway,” he said.

She sat down on her bed and spread the coat over her legs. Weaver checked outside for eavesdroppers. A boy and a girl, about five and six years old, peeked out of their stall across the aisle. Their parents or caregivers were nowhere in sight. Both had lumpy growths on their foreheads, and their curious eyes were centered on him. The girl waved at him with a hand missing all but two fingers.

He smiled and waved back, then reached into his pocket. The girl smiled when he pulled out two pieces of candy made from hardened jam. After tossing them across the aisle, he drew the curtain closed and pulled the single wooden chair up to Janga’s bed.

He sighed. “I’m sure you know the ship’s in trouble again.”

Her thin lips stretched into a grin, and she lit a candle and placed it on the table in front of him. The light flickered over her wrinkled face.

“Did you come all this way to tell me what I already know?”

He kept his voice low. “It’s more than the energy problem.”

“The rudders,” she replied. “I told you, I know.”

Weaver’s brows drew together, and he stroked his handlebar mustache. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You’re not here to talk about rudders. You’re here to talk about the past.” She leaned toward him and put her hand on his knee. “Rick, you have to let it go.”

He pulled away from her. She never called him by his first name. Hell, he hadn’t even been aware that she knew it.

“I’m here to talk about the prophecy.”

This time, Janga was the one to look skeptical. “I never would have thought a Hell Diver would be a true believer,” she said.

“I need to know where the promised land is, Janga. Are we close? And how are we supposed to know the man who will lead us there?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Rick, you know my visions are limited. I’ve told all I can.”

“You need to try harder,” he said. “I have to find this man.”

She lowered her gaze to the candle and stared into the flame. Voices and coughing outside were the only sounds.

Weaver glanced over his shoulder and pulled the curtain back again to make sure no one was listening. Both kids were peeking through their curtain across the aisle again. The girl smiled, and the boy licked jam off his mouth.

Janga glanced up when Jordan turned back to the table. The gray haze of the cataracts made her eyes look eerie in the flickering light.

“I’m sorry, Commander.” She closed her eyes and crossed her arms. “In my visions, I’ve seen the promised land, but it’s not what you or anyone else would expect. There are fish there. Many fish. Fish of all shapes and sizes.”

“Fish?”

She snapped her eyes open and smiled again. This time, her lips opened to reveal her two remaining teeth.

“Is this place near the ocean?” Weaver asked. “Because we’re pretty damn close to the coast right now.”

“Where?”

“If you’re psychic, you should already know.”

Janga let out a sigh that smelled like rot. Her robes didn’t smell much better, but Weaver didn’t flinch away.

“I’m only a little bit psychic,” she said, a gleam in her rheumy eyes. “Just tell me where we are, Rick.”

“A place called Charleston.” He studied her for a reaction. She looked surprised, a bare flicker of emotion on her wrinkled face. “Does that name mean something to you?”

“Yes, but this is just another distraction from why you’re really here. You said you aren’t here to talk about your past, Commander, but we both know you’re haunted. Until you face your ghosts, you’ll never be able to enter the promised land.”

The earpiece in Weaver’s hand crackled. He put it back in his ear, his mind racing.

“Commander Weaver, report to the bridge immediately,” said the voice over the channel.

“I have to go,” he said to Janga.

The old woman dropped her arms and stood. “There’s something else you should know.”

Weaver hesitated, one hand raised to draw back the curtain.

“In my vision, I saw you with the man who will lead us to the promised land.”

“Land or water?” Weaver said. “Because you mentioned fish. Last I checked, fish don’t walk. Thanks for the chat.”

Going back through the candlelit space, he shook his head. Maybe everyone was right about Janga. Maybe she was crazy after all. Maybe he was, too. Maybe they all were crazy for holding on to hope.