Thulani hurried into the dimlit post-production hall. Although the half-cubicles offered some privacy, the low-ceilinged chamber buzzed with motion.

Thulani weaved past an intern and a pair of cameramen to stop at Samuel's desk.

"Tea?" Thulani asked, selecting a waxy seaweed paper cup from a cardboard cup carrier. "It's caf-plus."

"Hell, yes," Samual looked up from his editing software, revealing puffy, bloodshot eyes, and accepted.

"You okay, man?" Thulani asked the editor. "When did you get home last night?"

"I practically didn't," Samuel groaned as he rubbed his eyes. "I've been running nonstop between the interview, the post-raid clean-up report, and now the concert."

"You need a raise," Thulani said.

"Another pair of editors to share the load would be better."

An older, homely woman approached Samuel and set a thumb drive on the desk. "The graphic banners for the concert promotion."

"I needed these hours ago," Samuel grumbled.

"Hey man, it's a shit show for all of us," The graphic designer sighed. "I can't wait to go back to water and current reports."

"And sleep," Samuel agreed.

"Tea?" Thulani offered one of the three remaining cups to the graphic designer.

"Oh, bless you," The woman accepted a cup. Thulani didn't know her name but had seen her around.

"See you around, Sam," she said before dismissing herself.

Thulani set down the remaining cup and swallowed hard as he rubbed his palms together.

"Samuel, is there anything I can do to help? I don't know about editing, but I can organize files, or if you show me real quick, I could stitch base footage together."

Samuel snorted. "If only."

Thulani started to sweat as he tried again.

"I'm serious. You're a professional, so why do they have you doing busy work?"

Samuel looked up from his screen thoughtfully. "You know what, I’m too busy to show you how to stitch footage, but there’s something easy you could help me out with." The editor grabbed the thumb drive on his desk and rolled back to the cubicle where Emanuel usually worked. The intern was at the city hall today helping set up cameras and sound.

"Do you have an account?" Samuel asked.

"No," Thulani said.

Samuel considered for a moment. "I'll have to log you into mine." He rolled to the keyboard and input his credentials. Thulani's eyes locked onto the editor's fingers.

User: Samuel.R.Ntsane

Password: passwordqwerty123

Thulani recoiled inwardly at the editor's low-strength password but quickly committed it to memory.

Samual plugged the thumb drive and opened the files. "Bahle has a numeric system that makes no sense on her banners. They're not organized by size or chronologically for the program. Could you open them, read them, and then rename them something useful like what they say?"

"Okay, how do I send it to you?" Thulani sat down and assumed control of the workstation.

"It's a virtual desktop. Just save it, and I'll have access."

Thulani nodded, encouraged. The linked system could help him find the servers hosting the broadcast. Depending on the Bulliten’s cyber security, he could splice the concert, interposing his footage while the whole city watched.

Samuel rolled back to his desk in his office chair, and Thulani opened digital rolling banners, which played without a background image.

'Sabrina Millis performance, Saturday at 1900 at the city hall plaza.'

Thulani practically copied the whole text and renamed the file. He clicked through several others and did the same. He peeked over his shoulder to see Samuel locked in on his screen. Other busy reports focused on various tasks. Nearby, a pair of lighting technicians argued, and three audio techs set up microphones, the halls restricting headroom far too cramped for the task.

Confident no one paid him immediate attention, Thulani pulled up the network file system and server directories. He almost cried out for joy when he found them. He clicked through, analyzing file storage across servers. He quickly narrowed his target to six media processing servers but had to dig deeper to assess which one he needed. His pulse spread as he clicked through very technical pages a glorified janitor had no business looking through.

Two of the audio techs walked past Thulani arguing. Thulani tabbed away, fumbling at the keys to the desktop folder he was supposed to be organizing. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. The techs moved on, and he tabbed back.

Evaluating the files hosted on each server, he ruled out three due to unrelated naming conventions and time stamps. Still, which one was it? The final three offered equal likelihood of use. He could try all three, but he was running out of time, the concert was tomorrow. Could he make two more drives loaded with the necessary video overlay malware and plug them in before then?

His eyes widened as he checked access history and found one had a massive transfer of files timestamped the previous day, as if in preparation for the concert. With a trembling hand, he fumbled for a pen and wrote the server's name on his palm.

'Media Processor 1342-TR 4500098'

"What are you doing?" Jeremy demanded from behind him, and Thulani jumped.

"Uh, um, I—" He moved to tab away from the directories and logs but stopped himself.

The manager frowned but seemed more focused on Thulani than his screen.

Seeing the confrontation, Samuel rolled over to Jeremy and Thulani. "He's helping me," he said. "I'm having him rename some files." The editor's eyes focused on the screen, and he cocked his head. "What's this?"

"I, uh, I must have pressed something, and these pages just appeared." Thulani's mouth went dry. There was no way someone would accidentally access the network file system and server directories, put them on a second desktop, and split the screen.

Jeremy rubbed his temples and sighed. "Samuel, I hired him to run errands and move things, not edit software."

"Look, if you gave me more actual editors, I wouldn't have to improvise.

Thulani’s eyes bulged as he realized neither man understood what he had accessed. He tabbed away to the primary desktop.

"Oh, look, I fixed it." Thulani looked from Jeremy to Samuel. “Where do you want me? I'm here to help."

Jeremy sighed. "Use him as you need, Sam, but don't commit him to something you can't pick up if I need him."

Thulani nodded and resumed his task. His heart rate pounded rapidly, and he struggled to focus on his mundane task. In his pocket, Thilani’s thumb drive, the vehicle for his malware, pressed into his leg. His mind raced; how could he plug his hardware directly into the server? He knew the server room was between the front offices and the breakroom, but it required key card access.

Thulani named more files until he finished the folder. Then he rolled back to Samuel, "Hey, I'm done."

"Thanks," Samuel said but paused. "Are you okay? You don't look good."

"No, I'm fine —" Thulani recognized his way out of this task. He rubbed his temples and sighed painfully. "Actually, I don't feel great."

Samuel nodded sympathetically, but an eyebrow raised. "What's on your hand?"

Panic shocked Thulani as he saw the server's name on his palm. "What, that? That's er—"

"You should probably go home. You look like shit." Samuel's eyes narrowed slightly, looking back at Thulani’s palm..

"It's just a tracking number!"

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

"Relax, man," Samuel said. "I didn't mean to pry."

"I uh—need to use the toilet." Thulani excused himself. His armpits sweated profusely, and he tried to calm himself, but he wasn't built for deception. He took a deep breath and glanced back at Samuel to find the man still looking his way with knitted brows. Taking a breath, Thulani stepped away toward the breakroom.

********

Recap

Lekota takes control of the control room. Mandla, Jabulani, and Francois sneak past Lekota’s forces, but many of his men are trapped outside the sub without the means to get back in. With the sub on high alert, Mandla seeks a way to get him men back inside.

Mandla and Jabulani marched behind Francois down a narrow corridor. Lekota had gotten too close; if he made them speak, he would have recognized Mandla's voice.

After hiding among the corpses in the wardroom, Stefanus had done a good enough job of drawing attention by shutting off the lights, triggering the fire suppression system, and laying down suppressive fire for them to join the rest of Lekota's party from the rear.

"Shit," Jabulani hissed under his breath. "They've closed the cav turret hatches. Could the others have made it in time?"

Francois shook his head. "Even with the maximum jet proportion, they wouldn't have gotten to a turret before Lekota retracted it."

"So much for Stefanus' plan," Mandla growled. He should have known better than to rely on so much creativity. There were too many variables.

The trio turned down the galley. Circular steel tables dotted the room, and a sliding window led to the kitchen. The men dropped their voices as a group of four Corsairs looked their way. Everyone wore full battle rattle: armored plates layered over either a wet suit or dry uniform. Most wore high-strength fiber helmets with yellow-tinted eye protection and built-in sound regulatory ear muffs.

"Would Stfanus’ pan have even worked? Could the others have feasibly reentered the sub through the cav turret hatch?" Jabulani asked.

"Yes," Francois said. "Stefanus was right. The turrets are retracted during motion to eliminate drag. While deployed, they're locked in place, but when pulled back into the sub, they get depressurized and drained. It would have brought our crew back if they could have gotten to them."

"Now, every decomp chamber and escape trunk will be guarded. Lekota just needs to wait for them to run out of power and oxygen."

They turned down another tight corridor, forcing them to march single file.

"Securing a reentry point would be the logical answer," Jabulani said.

"We have no way to communicate with the outside team," Mandla disagreed. "And they'll head right to the second rally point." He shook his head. "As stupid as it is."

"It's stupid enough that Lekota didn't initially consider it," Francois noted from the front.

"It's stupid enough we shouldn't be considering it," Mandla said.

Francois led them to a ladder hatch and slid down. The two Jobergians followed. They passed the systems bay, which Mandla eyed with interest.

A camera mounting in the corridor ended with exposed wires where Lekota's men had torn it off when their roles had been reversed. Luckily, the enemy had largely blinded themselves.

Two figures crossed into the auxiliary power chamber, but they stopped in surprise when they recognized Mandla.

Francois stiffened.

"Easy," Mandla placated, "They're mine." Mandla took the lead, and Leila grinned when he approached.

"How is your mission?" Mandla asked, his voice low.

"It's easier now that the doors are open," She proffered a duffle that clinked when metallic elements shifted inside. "I take it we lost the control room?"

Mandla nodded, and she frowned at Francois. "Who's this?"

"He's with us," Mandla assured her.

"Where are the others?"

Mandla cleared his voice, embarrassed. "Sea walking."

Leila's face dropped. "You going to get them back?"

"Working on it." Mandla grimaced.

"So, where's our new meeting point?"

"Systems bay."

Leila nodded, and Mandla caught a whiff of perfume.

Leila must have seen him sniff. "You like it? I found it in the female crew quarters."

Mandla rolled his eyes. "Focus, okay?"

"Hey, I'll beat you there," her eyes sparkled playfully.

"Let's go," Mandla said to his crew, and they pressed toward the sub's bow.

"So, are you guys a thing?" Francois asked, puzzled by the interaction.

"What?" Mandla asked, surprised, "No."

Jabulani snorted. "She drops obvious hints every chance she gets, but Mandla is about as oblivious as a sunfish."

"Or," Mandla growled, his face heating, "Maybe Mandla is a little more concerned about gaining control of the ship than finishing this conversation."

"You're not actually a Joberg defense force, are you?" Francois surmised.

Mandla and Jabulani cast sidelong glances at each other.

"No," Mandla replied. "More like a militia."

If that affected Francois' resolve to fight with them, he showed no sign.

Two new corsairs approached from the front, though Mandla didn't recognize them.

"Francois?" one said. A light brown man with a triangular face and relaxed posture. Yellow-tinted safety goggles covered his eyes under his aramid fiber helmet.

"Mothapo," Francois acknowledged.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Lekota sent us to sweep for enemies," Francois explained.

"These two Eel Fang?"

"Yeah,"

The second corsair looked up abruptly. Shorter and darker, he spoke with a whiny voice. "I'm Eel Fang. I don't know these two."

The air chilled as both groups stared at each other. Time coagulated and hung momentarily before everyone went for their weapons.

In the tight corridor, most grabbed for pistols. Mandla swiped his water knife glove, expending the second charge with a vicious hiss. The super pressurized jet shot from the glove at Mothapo’s eyes, but his standard issue protective eyewear held, and the liquid blade knocked his ear protection off as it tore into cartilage.

The Eel Fang seaman got his pistol up first and fired two shots before Francois dropped him with his own round. Mandla drew and fired five shots at Mothapo. The man crumpled.

Someone choked behind him, and Mandla turned to find Jabulani gagging on the floor, blood swelling from his neck and cheek.

"Shit!" Mandla hissed and dropped down, grabbing his bleed kit.

Without being prompted, Francois took a defensive posture, bringing his rifle to the high ready. "Listen, we can't stay here; everyone on this level heard those shots!"

Mandla ignored him, fumbling for a pressure bandage with blood-soaked hands. He stopped. While the entry wound on Jabulani's cheek was small, the hollow point didn't leave much of the back of his head intact.

"Contact rear!" Francois called as boots clanged from around a corner.

Jabulani's body spasmed, but he was gone. Mandla pulled himself to his feet as boots clanged against the deck. He raised his rifle, waiting. "Can we circle out from here?"

"No," Francoise said. "We're cornered.

Mandla took cover behind an open maintenance hatch. "Wait for a positive I.D. They could be mine. I don't want to shoot one of Leila's men."

Francois nodded in acknowledgment as he stared down his red dot optic.

The corsairs sliced the corner. Matilda didn't recognize them, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Wait!" Francois slapped Mandla's carbine down.

The three at the other end of the hall stopped.

"Francois?" The one in the lead asked. "What's happening?"

Mandla's blood chilled at the sound of the leader's accent. He studied the corsair, who had light olive skin, an oval face, and almond-shaped eyes. Memories came flooding back. This marine wasn't an ethnic African but a Sinasian. Instinctively, Mandla started to raise his weapon before stopping himself. His instincts drove him to run. Mandla shook his head, driving his thoughts away. This Sinasian's presence was a coincidence; there was no way he knew who Mandla was.

"Wang, Rudolph, Imani," Francois called. "Do you really want to serve under Lekota?"

Wang looked past the men at the bodies and then at Mandla. "You're with the enemy."

One of his comrades slinked behind a valve, taking cover.

"We're about to regain control. Work with us, and it will turn out well for you," Francois offered.

Wang frowned. "Doesn't sound like you're the winning side." More boots clanged behind him. "And you're cornered."

Mandla prepared for a fight by singling out the man behind Wang because of his aggressive posture. In a fight, that one would fire first.

"Don't side with us, then," Francois panicked, "just redirect them; we just need a little more time. Minimize risk to yourself."

"The hatches are all open. Half the sailors in the sub heard those shots," Wang said. "They'll expect an explanation."

Wang actually considered it.

Mandla acknowledged that cooperation was his team's best chance here. He gritted his teeth and slipped from behind his cover. "You have an explanation." He looked at his Jabulani and rolled his fallen friend over. "This man attacked and killed the other two. You stopped him. Little risk to you."

Wang considered and nodded. "Go, you don't have much time." The man immediately behind Wang looked up in surprise, but the Sinasian seemed to be the authority in the party. “You had better win, Francois. Last thing I want is to be that ass’ pawn.”

"Let's move," Francois said, though he walked backward, unwilling to expose his back to the trio. They rounded another corner and arrived at a new sealed hatch.

Francois hammered on the steel door, and a speaker crackled to life next to the door.

"Who's there? We heard shots," someone said.

"Francois," The former corsair responded, compressing the push-to-talk (PTT) button built into a panel adjacent to the door. "We found an infiltrator, and Wang got him." Francois drew his pistol, so Mandla stepped back and shouldered his carbine.

"We're supposed to guard this position," the voice said. We'll keep the hatch locked until Lekota has cleared the sub."

Francois released the PTT and cursed.

"We need to get in that room," Mandla hissed. "Stefanus, Mbeki, Lesego, Andries, and Botha will all die if we don't."

"I know," Francois snapped back, then he nodded as he hit the PTT. "I'm afraid that isn't going to work. Lekota sent me to make sure you're not acting in duress. Your video feed is down. Just let me see you, and I'll report that all is good."

The other side went silent momentarily, and then the wheel spun. As the door cracked, a voice came from the other side. "Okay, make it quick, then we're locking the door again—"

Francois jerked the hatch open and put his pistol in a startled seaman's face. Mandla spilled in behind him.

"Hands where I can see them!" Francois barked. "I don't want to flush you, but I will!"

Mandla sealed the hatch behind them and turned to find two corsairs with their hands in the air. Neither was armed.

"On your knees, hands behind your head."

"Francois! We're good!" one cried. The other glanced at Mandla, and his face darkened. "Trator."

Mandla scanned the room, his eyes pausing on thick ratchet straps. While Francois covered the men with his weapon, Mandla restrained their prisoners by cranking the straps around their wrists uncomfortably tight.

The sailors shut up, content to glare, seated against the wall.

At last, in a secure pocket, Mandla and Francois turned to the four empty starboard torpedo tubes—His team's doors back in.

"This is stupid," Mandla reminded himself. Then he sighed and shut one of the tubes.