Summoning what strength remained in him, he pushed away the pain and fear. He barreled through a vulture that came darting down the stairs, swatting it with the thighbone. Claws slashed at his legs, and a beak sank through his boot as he crushed the thing. Gritting his teeth in pain, he shrugged off another creature that had landed on his back.
Weaver could smell them now: a mixture of gamy meat, body odor, and filthy feathers. His battery unit continued to drop, and each breath filled his lungs with toxic air, but through it all, he held on to hope that he could still escape.
He kept his gaze on the door ahead and smacked another vulture to the floor below with his blaster. The tubular burrows ended at the upper landing, but they continued to bulge with more of the creatures. Weaver stabbed the jagged end of the femur through the rubbery skin on the final step, impaling a vulture he couldn’t see. He pulled the bone free and stabbed another before it could emerge. Then he squeezed the trigger of his blaster. Fire flashed from the muzzle, and buckshot punched through the control panel beside the door.
Past the ringing in his ears came the shrieks of the frightened vultures. He jumped onto the landing and turned to see the beasts flocking down the stairs, squawking in their ghastly language. Hell, if he had known it would scare them off so easily, he would have fired earlier.
Injured and exhausted, Weaver stumbled over to the door. He shined his light through the crack and listened for hostiles, but all he heard were the squawks of those still retreating down the stairs. Placing both palms against the door, he pushed it open, fully expecting to find it overrun with monsters.
The station was deserted. Desks covered in dusty computer equipment furnished the small room. He took a step inside and dragged the nearest desk over to block the door. Metal screeched across the floor as he added two more tables to the barricade.
He scanned the room, playing the light across the steel shutters on the far wall. He found the radio station on a desk in the center, then looked for the backup power. A control panel was mounted on the wall to his right.
Weaver flipped the breakers, and the overhead lights blazed to life. His eyes closed at the sudden brilliance, but opened again at the sound of a voice.
“Hello and welcome.”
Blinking in the brightness to locate the source of the voice, he banged into a desk.
“Do not be alarmed,” the voice said. “I am Timothy Pepper, the manager of ITC Communal Thirteen. How may I assist you?”
Weaver eyed the hologram skeptically. He had heard of AIs, but this was the first he had ever met. According to the archives, the cost of the technology had made them unaffordable over 260 years ago. Others, like the one on the Hive, had malfunctioned not long into service. Captain Ash had told stories of those days, but Weaver didn’t know the details. He wasn’t even sure his old airship, Ares, ever had an AI.
All Weaver knew was that he didn’t trust the image standing in front of him. Hell, he barely trusted humans.
“Sir, you are injured,” Timothy said. “May I provide medical assistance?”
“I don’t have time for that. I need to use your radio.”
Timothy clasped his hands behind his back. “Certainly. I can assist you with that.”
Weaver limped over, leaving a streak of blood on the tile floor. His leg and foot were in bad shape, and his visor was useless. Although he knew it was only his imagination, he swore he could already feel the radiation eating away at him.
“I need you to transmit an SOS over this channel,” Weaver said. The piece of paper he pulled from his vest was wet, the numbers streaky. “Think you can read these?”
Timothy checked the paper and then gestured for him to take a seat at the radio desk. The speakers crackled and coughed after years of sitting idle as Timothy scanned through the channels. As he worked, Weaver tried to reach Magnolia and Rodger on the channel.
“Do you copy, over?” he said.
Static crackled over the channel. They were still radio silent.
“The other divers are on their way to this facility,” Timothy said, without taking his focus off the radio.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I provided them a map to get here,” Timothy replied.
Weaver relaxed a bit. If Magnolia and Rodger trusted Timothy, maybe he could, too. He held up his hand at the sound of another voice. This one was coming from the speakers on the radio.
“Wait, go back,” Weaver said. “What is that?”
“One moment,” Timothy said.
Static filled the room. Then a voice. Not Rodger or Magnolia, but an oddly familiar voice that Weaver hadn’t heard in years.
“If anyone’s out there, this is Commander Xavier Rodriguez. I’m leaving Hades and heading east toward the coast.”
Jordan strolled into the launch bay for the first time in months. He usually sent Katrina to supervise these things, but this was one launch he didn’t want to miss. He nodded at Sergeant Jenkins, and the militia guards closed the double doors. One of the windows was missing, the glass shattered by a militia soldier trying to stop Michael and Layla. The valuable glass wouldn’t be replaced anytime soon.
Outside, people jostled for a look through the small windows.
That was fine. Jordan wouldn’t stop them from watching; it would be good for them. An execution from time to time reminded the citizens of the Hive just who was in charge.
He crossed the room with his hands folded as if in prayer. It seemed fitting, really, since he was about to cleanse the ship of a false prophet.
Janga stood inside drop tube 13, with only her head visible beneath the domed lid. A single tear rolled down her bruised face. She wiped it away with bloodied fingers when Jordan began walking toward her.
He stopped at the red line surrounding her tube and let his hands drop to his side. He tried to appear nonthreatening, as if he were about to have a conversation with an old friend. Ty stood a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched. Jordan could see he wasn’t happy about his new position as a Hell Diver, but so far, his only protest was the frown on his face.
“Leave us,” Jordan said to the former engineer.
Ty glanced at Janga once more and walked over to the operations room. The hatch shut with a loud click that echoed through the vaulted space.
Jordan stepped over the red line and smiled at the old woman. “Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “Part of me was hoping you would keep your mouth shut belowdecks and stay out of the archives. But you gave me no choice.”
A snort of disgust came from inside the tube. Janga looked up at him with a stubborn gaze that reminded him of Captain Ash. Both women had believed they were doing what was best for humanity.
Both had been wrong.
Janga knitted her brow, squinting. “You know what’s down there, Jordan. You know why Maria’s dream of finding a home on the surface can never be in our lifetime. But you also know you can’t keep the Hive flying forever.”
Jordan looked over his shoulder to make sure the guards weren’t paying attention. Both men were facing the doors, backs turned. He took another step toward the launch tube and leaned down toward the plastic surface so his face was just above Janga’s.
“Before Captain Ash died, she told me in detail what happened to those facilities, and I put the other pieces together by reading the restricted archives. Why do you think I’ve stayed clear of those red zones for so long?”