“This is everyone,” Sloan said. “I know it’s not much, but it’s what we have to work with from the militia. Everyone else is either dead or with the captain on that warship. I’ve only got forty-two people under my command, and at least ten need to stay on the ships, to keep order if and when we decide to attack the Metal Islands.”
Les tried to picture these people fighting the well-armed and well-trained Cazador soldiers that Timothy Pepper described in one of his last transmissions from the Sea Wolf.
In his mind’s eye, Les saw the barbarians slaughtering the militia soldiers along with anyone else they sent down there.
“What, exactly, are we fighting?” asked Jack, a sixty-year-old former electrician who had trained Les when he was younger.
Les turned and whispered, “You haven’t told them yet?”
Sloan shook her head. “Figured you’d want the honors.”
“All right,” Les said with a discreet sigh. “Follow me to the trading post. I’m going to explain everything there, and you can decide if you still want to fight with us.”
The group of militia soldiers followed Les out of the launch bay and into the crowded passages.
“Out of the way,” Sergeant Sloan said in her authoritative voice.
Fresh paint glistened on the bulkheads of the next passage—a scene of exotic animals drinking from a watering hole in a desert. Around the corner, another recent display of artwork had gone up on the overhead and bulkhead. Waves slapped the white beach of an island, and palm trees bent in the wind.
It was a dangerous image, Les realized. This was what most people would think of when they spoke of the Metal Islands. The flow of passengers moved through the colorful scene, but he knew the truth about the horrors they would find when they got to their destination.
The line continued around the next corner, where it bottlenecked in front of the trading post. Drifting scents from the food vendors mixed with body odor and the ever-present whiff from the nearest shit cans.
As Sergeant Sloan led the way into the room, Les tried to remember the last time he had seen the space this packed. All the vendor stalls had been moved back to the bulkheads. The tables normally reserved for eating were already occupied, and a small stage had been moved in front of them near the north bulkhead.
Les breathed in and out to quell his anxiety. He had never spoken in front of so many people. Layla and Michael were already on the stage, sitting in chairs next to a lectern. Ensigns Ada Winslow, Bronson White, and Dave Connor were standing behind them in their dress whites. A hologram glowed onto the stage and materialized into the form of Timothy Pepper.
“Hello, Lieutenant Mitchells,” he said.
“Welcome back, Pepper.”
Michael and Layla stood to greet Les as he stepped up onto the platform. He made his way right to the podium, stopping only to reach into his uniform and pull out his prepared notes.
Hundreds of people filed into the trading post, filling the space with conversations, sporadic coughs, and the cries of babies—the music of the Hive, the sounds of survival.
Les scanned the faces of the people he had spent his entire life with. He knew everyone by name, even the lower-deckers. But not everyone was here today. Missing were Katherine and Phyl. His heart broke at their absence, but he still had a job to do, a duty to these people.
Sergeant Sloan grabbed the microphone and tapped on the end, and a loud thunk, thunk erupted from the wall-mounted speakers across the space.
“Quiet, everyone,” she growled. Her rough voice silenced the crowd, and she handed the microphone to Les. “Good luck, Giraffe.”
More people squeezed into the room, and he waited for the final passengers. Sloan directed her people to fan out and hold security, and for that, Les was grateful. He had no idea how these people would receive his words—especially some of the less-stable folks who still weren’t happy about the living conditions. There was some history of violence from lower-deckers at public gatherings this big.
As the final stragglers walked into the trading post, Les took a moment to scan the faces. In the very front stood Cole Mintel, his sleeves rolled up to reveal a new tattoo of the tree of life—a tribute to his dead son, Rodger. His wife, Bernie, stood on his right, and on the left were two farmers, Moon Lao and her husband, John. Dom, the curly-headed owner of the Dragon noodles stall, and Marv, proprietor of the Wingman, had also gotten in at the front.
Families with kids sat at the tables. Les saw the orphan siblings Chloe and Daniel amid other children and parents with tattered clothing and holes in their shoes.
It was the same sight he had been accustomed to his entire life. Even the officers and those civilians who held some of the more desirable jobs as engineers and farmers looked ragged and downbeat, worried about the announcement.
And he was about to ask for volunteers to fight a war?
Recruiting new Hell Divers was one thing, but recruiting people for the express purpose of killing other human beings was another thing altogether.
The room quieted, and all eyes were on Les.
He cleared his throat as he unfolded the sheet of paper. Then he folded it and stuck it back in his pocket. What he was about to say, he had memorized.
“As you all know,” he said, “I’m Lieutenant Les Mitchells. Some of you may know me as Giraffe. I stand before you today as an officer and a citizen of the sky. For my entire life, I’ve lived among you, working by your side, raising my family as you raised yours, all in the hope that someday we could return to the surface. Until recently, I didn’t believe it could happen in my lifetime and figured that only our grandchildren’s children might be so lucky.”
He paused, squinting to see several more people squeeze into the room, hoping it was Katherine and Phyl. It wasn’t.
“As many of you may also know, Commander Xavier Rodriguez and Magnolia Katib have discovered a habitable place called the Metal Islands.”
The room buzzed with murmurs and side conversations, just as he had predicted. Les looked over to Sloan, who pulled out a baton, strode over, and slammed it against the side of the podium.
“Let Lieutenant Mitchells speak!” she yelled.
Another smack of the baton, and the passengers finally quieted.
“The Metal Islands are located off the Virgin Islands, an old-world chain inhabited by humans. But they are not actual islands. They are oil rigs, and they are controlled by a warrior society called the Cazadores. These people have captured the crew of the Sea Wolf.”
Les spoke faster before he could be interrupted again. “Captain DaVita is sailing there now in a naval warship, the USS Zion, which we found at another location…”
He let his words trail off as the trading post fell silent but for the sporadic coughs and a wailing baby. Les dreaded what he was about to say.
“Captain DaVita plans on offering the leader of the Cazadores a chance to give us our people back and let us share this habitable place with them, or suffer the consequences. But if they refuse this offer, we will be forced to go to war.”
“War?” someone shouted.
More voices broke out, and Sloan slapped her baton against her hand, ready to crack heads.
Les swallowed, then explained why he was really here. “I’ve been tasked with recruiting a fighting force to help us take the Metal Islands if diplomacy fails. I know what I’m asking. For those of you who volunteer, make no mistake, this will be a brutal fight, but this is also the chance we’ve all been waiting for, and I, for one, am prepared to die for this new home.”
Michael and Layla walked over to stand by his side.