Layla shook her head. “No, that can’t be.”
“You’re saying we killed them?” Les asked.
“Not all of them,” Timothy replied. “I’ve pinpointed the location of the organic life-form.”
“Show us,” Michael said.
The three divers followed the AI, weapons up, beams playing over the chambers containing the human-machine hybrids.
Timothy moved down the center aisle and stopped beside one of the vats. The man inside was so wrinkled from age and immersion that his skin looked like a dried piece of fruit. His bald head had slumped against his chest, exposing a smooth metal crown. Most of this man was now machine. Only the arms, chest, and head remained human.
Unlike the other bodies, this ancient man wasn’t wearing a breathing apparatus—probably because he didn’t have lungs, Michael realized.
“So where is it?” Layla asked as she walked around the other chambers. “I don’t see any live ones.”
“Right here,” Timothy said. He turned his holographic body toward the man in the chamber in front of Michael.
Layla stared. “He’s still…?”
The hybrid slowly opened his eyelids, looking out with one human eye and one mechanical eye that roved from Les to Michael. When it focused on the holographic shape of Timothy, the human eye widened, and the robotic eye glowed orange.
“Holy shit,” Les said, backing away. “What the heck is this thing?”
Michael stayed where he was, watching the old man squirm inside the vat, his wrinkled skin like plastic. He tried to speak, bubbles bursting from his mouth. The terror in his features and movements was difficult to watch.
This man had suffered for God knew how long.
The hybrid’s lips continued to move, trying to speak to the divers. He squirmed against the restraints holding him in the vat.
“This is wrong,” Les said. “I really think we should get out of here.”
The hybrid managed to raise a hand, putting his palm against the glass. A stream of bubbles burst out of his mouth as his lips moved and the robotic eye flashed an angry orange.
“Timothy, can you make out what he’s saying?” Michael asked.
There was a long pause from the AI before he replied.
“Yes, Commander,” Timothy replied. “He’s repeating, ‘Destroy me… destroy me… before I kill you all.’”
Throughout dinner, the clanking of hammers and the whine of electrical equipment played like some undisciplined, atonal band. And it appeared to be music to el Pulpo’s ears. He watched the construction crews as he mowed through his three courses of fish, ham, and chicken. He was plainly delighted at the work being done on the rig.
To Magnolia, the noise was grating and unpleasant, but at least it distracted el Pulpo’s attention from her. She picked at her food as the crews worked into the night on the prison that would hold her people captive.
Under the table, Miles whined as if he knew what it meant for his friends. She could tell he was itching to rip his handler’s throat out, but there was nothing he could do against the spiked collar.
By the time the moon was high in the open bowl of sky above them, el Pulpo had downed his sixth goblet of wine. He got up from the table, the feet of his chair shrieking on the metal deck.
Then he lumbered over to the hatch leading belowdecks—to relieve himself, Magnolia assumed. She remained at the table, looking at the dead fish that stared back from her plate. The past few hours had been torture, but at least, thanks to the distractions, she wasn’t forced to carry on much of a conversation with the bastard.
He didn’t seem interested in what she had to say, anyway. Imulah had translated the few things el Pulpo said to her. Simple questions about her former life on the Hive, which she answered in the fewest words possible while the king stared at her breasts.
She glanced back at the scribe, who remained standing near the rail of the boat, flanked on either side by the two Cazador guards. They hadn’t taken their eyes off her the entire night. Behind them, beyond the barbed wire that spiraled above the rail, the pilot of the speedboat that had ferried Magnolia here watched from his vessel.
There was nowhere to run.
She looked at the oil rig. Sparks showered into the water from a metal gate two men were welding out of pipe. Rodger was up there somewhere, helping build the cages.
The sight sucked the spirit out of her. She felt numb, weak.
The will to fight had drained away. Years ago, when she had gone to the brig on the Hive for stealing, she had felt trapped. That dreadful feeling had returned. Her heart ached, and her stomach churned with anxiety.
She had joined the Hell Divers to get out of prison, even though it meant she would probably die on a dive. But she hadn’t. She had survived by fighting tooth and nail, only to end up a prisoner once more.
This time, however, she feared what would happen if she didn’t cooperate with the Cazadores, more than she ever feared dying on a dive. Back then she didn’t have anyone to care about. No one would have mourned her if she splattered on the surface, and she wouldn’t have lost any sleep over the death of anyone around her.
But now she had Rodger, X, Miles, Tin, Layla, Katrina, and Les. They were all counting on her. They were more than friends. They had become her family.
Cooperating with her captors could help them, maybe even save them. But it also meant betraying what she was: a fighter.
The hatch to the Sea Wolf opened, and for a moment she pictured X stepping out onto the deck. But it was just el Pulpo ducking under the hatch frame, his unbuttoned shirt blowing in the breeze, his muscles glistening with sweat.
He returned to the table holding something under his arm. When he sat in his chair, he pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt and used the tip to pick food from between his sharp yellowed teeth. He flicked a bit of meat down at Miles, who licked it off the deck.
Sick bastard.
She hadn’t seen them feed the husky at all since she arrived. No wonder he was so hungry. Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the hunk of fish off her plate and tossed it down to him.
This earned her a glare from el Pulpo, and then a laugh. He took the black object from under his arm and set it on the table. It looked like a hard drive. He pushed it over to Magnolia, and she leaned closer for a better look.
“Our lord wants you to know that we found your friend yesterday,” Imulah said.
“Friend?” she said quietly. Staring at the hard drive, she realized that the friend was Timothy. The AI’s consciousness and programming were stored on this drive, which was effectively his brain.
Before she could pull it away, el Pulpo stabbed the hard drive with his knife, then tossed it overboard.
“No!” Magnolia shouted.
The assemblage of digital programming and memory that had been Timothy sank into the water. A tear welled in her eye, but she forced it back, not wanting to give this filth the satisfaction.
“Our lord now wants to know if you’re ready for the final course,” Imulah said. “I believe your people would call it dessert.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m not feeling very well.”
The scribe translated her words, much to el Pulpo’s annoyance. He frowned and fixed his eye on her as if trying to look into her guts for a lie.
Magnolia turned away.
“You should drink more wine before you go to the room downstairs that has been prepared for your first night together,” Imulah said. These were his words, she realized—not something el Pulpo had told him to say.
“It will make you feel much better,” the scribe added.
Magnolia nearly gagged.