Dom returned a few minutes later with a steaming carton of the best noodles that remained in the world. The intoxicating scent pulled X back from his thoughts, and for the moment, he forgot about the ship’s societal problems.
“How much I owe you?” he asked.
Dom looked up at the broken sign dangling off the canopy. “You get me a new lightbulb, you get free noodles.”
X examined the sign. His brow furrowed. “Not many of those left on the surface, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Dom slid the bag to X, his gummy grin growing even wider.
X took the warm carton, eyed the sign one more time, and left. “See ya, Dom,” he shouted over his shoulder.
X walked back to his apartment, wondering what he could say to Tin. He knocked. Twice. It felt odd to be knocking on his own door, but he didn’t want to alarm the boy. X wanted him to feel at home.
After two raps, X grabbed the handle and pulled it open. It creaked, revealing the cramped living room. He hated everything about his apartment, from the rattle of the air-handler unit to the cracks in the fake leather couch where his wife used to wait for him every day. He could still picture Rhonda sitting there, legs crossed, judging brown eyes looking him up and down to see if he was drunk.
Tin sat curled up in her spot, tablet in hand, the glow illuminating the innocent face of a ten-year-old boy.
“I got you some noodles,” X said, shaking the bag.
Tin didn’t even look up.
Crossing the room in three strides, X carried the bag into the kitchen. Two backless stools were pushed underneath the simple oval table. Only a dash of the original yellow paint remained.
X put the bag down on the countertop and checked on the tomato plant under the flickering grow bulb. The stem drooped. He scooped up a fallen leaf and put it back into the pot.
Sighing, he squeezed into the bathroom and closed the door. The toilet, or “shit can,” as most passengers called them, smelled faintly of something rotten. He held his breath as he relieved himself, then closed the door.
Tin had moved to the floor in the living room. He sat cross-legged on the floor, fumbling through the tool pouch on his belt as he worked on repairing the vacuum cleaner. Unscrewing the front bolts, Tin slid off the cover to expose a skein of wires. He took a small pair of tweezers from his pouch.
“You hungry?” X said from the kitchen.
The boy shook his head.
“Come on, you have to eat. Besides, I got noodles. No one turns down the Dragon’s noodles. I figure it’s the least I can do to repay you for fixing that vacuum. Also”—he pointed at the sink—“the grow lamp isn’t working very well. I’ll owe you for fixing that, too, right?”
The savory smell filled the room. Tin’s eyes searched the dimly lit space and fell on X for a blink. Leaving the dismantled vacuum cleaner on the floor, he hopped to his feet and went to the kitchen. He checked the lamp, then sat down at the table.
They ate together in silence, X having run out of things to say and Tin doing his best to avoid eye contact.
X had watched Tin grow up, had seen his love for engineering even before he learned to talk. Now the boy spent more time working on projects than playing with kids his own age.
Aaron, Tin, Rhonda, and X had been a family once. X would do anything to have those days back. For the past five years, he had been motivated only by his duty to the Hive. With Rhonda gone, his responsibility to the human race had kept him diving. But now he had a new responsibility.
He looked at the boy. “Did you learn anything at school today?”
Tin hesitated before slurping down his next noodle, but said nothing.
X took a different approach. “I spoke with your teacher this morning. She said you guys are going to see the water reclamation plant soon.”
The boy pulled his foil hat lower over his ears and continued eating.
“Listen, Tin,” X said, his voice deepening. “You’ve got to help me out here. You have to talk to me eventually. I mean, you’re all I got now, and I’m all you got. Like it or not, that’s how it is.”
This time, Tin looked up, his eyes locking with X’s. Swallowing, he jumped off the stool, pushed it neatly under the table, and was gone. A moment later, the door to the bedroom slammed shut.
“Damn,” X muttered. He contemplated the full plate of his favorite meal, then pushed it aside. He wasn’t hungry; he was thirsty. What he needed right now was a stiff drink.
SIX
Commander Weaver watched the walls around him with a sense of horrified awe. They shook and rattled as if some giant outside were swinging a wrecking ball against them. Bits of acoustic paneling and dust rained down from the ceiling, covering him in white flakes.
He sat on the stairs to the second floor, his head bowed between his legs as if he were praying. Not that he was—he could probably count on one hand the times in his life he had actually prayed. It did seem a miracle, though, that he and Jones had survived the storm even this long.
“Sir, top floor is clear,” Jones said from the landing above. “There’s nothing here. No sign of life, no cells, and no pressure valves. Nothing.”
“I could have sworn I heard something,” Weaver said. He shook his head, his senses still rattled from the fall he took before Jones yanked him inside the building.
Jones continued down the stairs and sat down beside Weaver on the step. They sat in silence for several moments, listening to the howl of the storm outside. Jones whispered something that Weaver caught only a piece of.
“What’d you say?”
“A prayer,” Jones replied. “A Christian prayer.”
“You really believe in that stuff?”
Jones pointed to the cross on his helmet. “If we make it back to Ares, I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He twisted around to face Weaver. “You sure you’re okay, sir?” he asked, his dark eyes searching Weaver’s in the blue glow of their battery units.
“I’m fine,” Weaver lied. He took a sip from the hydration straw in his helmet. The sterilized water tasted like halide tablets, but it would have to do. Half their supplies were sitting in a crate at the bottom of a pit full of monsters.
He hoped the other crate had made it to the surface safely. It was their only chance to save Ares and get back home. Without it, they would have no way to get enough power cells or the pressure valves back up to the ship. There was simply no way he and Jones could carry everything on the return trip—their personal helium ascenders would never lift it all. The valves for the eighty-megawatt reactors weighed forty pounds each, and Weaver still had to find another booster. Otherwise, he would be stranded down here forever. Captain Willis could never risk landing to scoop him back up.
Weaver grunted, his stomach churning from the pills he had ingested. They were supposed to turn radioactive snow into safe drinking water, but he had his doubts. His insides were already starting to ache.
“What do you think those things were back there?” Jones asked. He pulled the blaster from the holster on his leg and brushed off a layer of ice.
“No idea,” Weaver said. “But I’m calling them Sirens.”
“How’s that?”
“Yeah,” Weaver replied. “Those noises they made were a dead ringer for a level-five emergency siren on the ship.”
Jones looked up at the ceiling, then back to Weaver. “How does anything survive down here in this radiation?”