Thulani wasn’t a trained spy, but if he was, he imagined he wouldn't sweat so damn much. He rolled his mop bucket down a hall, vehemently aware of the large wet patches soaking his underarms. People without something to hide didn't sweat this much. He swallowed, glancing at interns and news anchors as he pushed his janitorial supplies. Why was it so hot? Nothing to see here, just a janitor doing mundane tasks during the Bulletin's most busy project.

Thulani stopped beside a door with no handle, the server room's emergency exit. Luckily, it wasn't a sealable hatch but a more practical door. This far into the metropolis, the flood hatches tended to be on the outside access points to a facility. With hundreds of sealable compartments arrayed along the city’s outer hull, the entire metropolis would be underwater if a flood got this far into the building.

Using his mop, Thulani pushed the inside of the bucket, trying to tip it over, but it simply rolled, thumping lightly against the door. Thulani grimaced. How could he discreetly orchestrate an accident?

He hooked his toes under the yellow tub and lifted them, but five gallons of soapy water proved too heavy for his foot.

Thulani scanned the hall, ensuring nobody paid him any special attention, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a clammy hand. Content, Thulanti took a knee and dumped the bucket.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he hissed as he leaped back. He noted a fair amount of water running under the emergency exit door.

Thulani fumbled with the mop, slopping it through the water and hand-cranking the press to drain it back into the bucket. Now, bystanders stared at him, some sympathetically, others in annoyance.

Jeremy stalked down the corridor, examining Thulani's mess, then his eyes widened. Thulani opened his mouth to ask for access to clean the water on the other side of the door, but Jeremy spoke first.

"Shit, that's the server room. We can't have water over there." Jeremy’s lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. “Thulani, I took a chance on you. We do not need any more setbacks.”

Thulani winced. His entire presence here was a lie, so why did Jeremy’s irritation over Thulani's fabricated incompetence sting so badly? Maybe it was because Thulani didn't expect his lies to affect people who had nothing to do with the council's treachery.

"Watch your step!" Thulani warned a passerby before rolling his bucket around to the server room's primary access door.

Jeremy swiped his badge, and the reader by the door blinked with a green light. Jeremy pushed the door open and held it for Thulani.

An air-conditioned breeze mixed with hot, fan-driven air from the server racks filled the room with a mechanical hum. Six racks hosted scores of servers. Thulani's hair stood on end as computing power thrummed around him.

"Oh good," Jeremy exclaimed. "Not very much got in."

At the far end of the room, about a half-gallon of water seeped under the door. Thulani pushed his bucket, thanking Jeremy, but his gut sank when Jeremy made no move to leave. The manager glanced at his watch with a frown.

"I'll take care of this," Thulani offered. "I'm sure you've got more important things to do."

"No one's allowed in here by themselves."

Thulani cursed himself. Of course, a simple security measure would ruin his whole plan. He mopped slowly, trying to find a solution.

Jeremy tapped his toe rapidly from the doorway. Of course, the last thing he expected to do was babysit Thulani, and Thulani was almost done. The water never posed an immediate risk, as the bottom racks hung six inches off the floor.

"This floor is filthy," Jeremy noticed. "We never get cleaners back here—Just an occasional systems tech. It’s such a hassle, and we’re always busy." His eyes flickered to the mop.

"I can mop really quick," Thulani offered hopefully.

"That's a problem for another day," Jeremy said, glancing at his watch again.

Thulani watched his window close as he mopped up the last of the water. All this for nothing. He turned back for the door, glancing hungrily at the servers.

Jeremy frowned thoughtfully and stopped Thulani with an upraised hand.

"Emmanuel," he called over his shoulder. "Come here."

The intern appeared after a moment.

"I'm going to forget if we don't mop this place now," he confessed. "Stay with Thulani." Emmanual nodded and replaced the manager.

Jeremy hurried off with purpose.

"When did you get back from staging?" Thulani asked.

"Like ten minutes ago," Emmanual said. "Man, those speakers are twice as tall as me, and Sabrina Millis was there!"

"Really?" Thulani asked, not very interested in the pop star. He started mopping around Emanuel's feet.

Emmanuel frowned as Thulani spread soapy water between them. "Shouldn't you start at the back and work your way to the door?"

"I don't have much water, so we should start by the entrance while it's still clean."

"You're going to trap yourself in the back," Emmanuel said.

"It'll dry quickly with this airflow," Thulani assured him. "What was Sabrina like?"

Emmanual's face lit up. "She's hot, man, and her backup dancers too!"

"Yeah?" Thulani asked, widening the gap between them. He worked his way around one of the racks.

"I'm telling you, her costume is a real treat."

On the far side, Thulani put down the mop and searched the racks, which largely concealed the intern with wires and humming servers. He glanced at his hand and froze. The server name inked on his palm smudged horribly with sweat. Shit. Emmanual continued speaking over the rack, but Thulani searched the racks for the correct server. It had to be precise—only one was linked directly to the broadcast control hub. He found six labeled media processors, which meant he was in the right section. Still, he wasn't sure if the last number on his on the correct server was supposed to be a 98 or 99.

"— how awesome is that?" Emmanual's voice contested with servers' buzz.

"What?" Thulani called back.

Emmanual sighed in irritation and started towards Thulani.

"Wait!" Thulani cried, and he watched Emmanuel recoil in confusion through a small gap in the rack. "The floor’s wet. I don’t want to mop again," he said. "I'll be done soon."

Emanuel sighed and settled back against the door frame.

"What were you saying?" Thulani called. It was 98. It had to be.

"I was saying Jeremy offered me a T6 position when I graduate, assuming I finish my certification."

"That's awesome!" Thulani produced his thumb drive, crouched by Media Processor 1342-TR 4500098—the server that would allow him to override a live broadcast. His plan collapsed around him. He held a USB-A thumb drive, but the input ports on the server were all USB-C.

"No, no, no," he hissed as he looked around the sides of the server and tried feeling the back for a compatible input.

"This internship has been hard work, you know. It feels good to have earned the position."

Thulani patted his pockets in a futile search for an adaptor he knew he didn't have. "You know, man, good for you." Some of his frustration must have leaked into his voice because Emanuel went silent.

What could he do? Leave to find an adaptor; what would his excuse be? He searched the room for options and saw a service cart. He stumbled over to it.

"You'll get there, Thulani," Emmanuel assured him from the doorway. "You might not have a foot in like the other interns, but you work way harder. Knock out those certs, and Jeremy will have to give you a raise."

The cart held only a mini screwdriver, some electrical tape, and a jug of coolant. "Hey, I'm the stupid one for such an abrupt professional change," Thulani said. He tried to think up an excuse that could get someone to badge him back into the server room. Would Emmanuel agree to stay in by himself if he stepped out quickly? Thulani had six compatible adapters at Mosa's house, but that would take him half an hour to sprint at full speed; why didn't he bring one?

"No one blames you, man," Emmanuel said. "I didn't even see any of the raiders during the attack. I can only imagine the horrible things you saw."

A monitor plugged into a different rack caught Thulani's attention. He snatched the mini screwdriver and tape from the cart and grabbed the mop before crossing behind a gap in the racks.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

As Thulani passed, he smiled innocently at Emmanuel, who leaned against the door frame. With its keyboard and mouse, the monitor in this new rack served as a service station for more technical maintenance. He fumbled for the mouse, grinning victoriously when he saw it had a USB-C interface. With the right tools, he could repurpose its cord as a makeshift adapter to connect his USB-A thumb drive.

He snatched the mouse, unplugged it, and popped the cord off with a jerk. Reasoning a missing mouse was less suspicious than a damaged one; he pocketed it. Focused on his singular task, he bit down on the cord, spinning it until his teeth punctured the protective plastic sheath, and he stripped the wire with his teeth. Unscrewing mini-screws from this thumb drive, he discarded its protective housing. If only he had a soldering pen, he could secure his makeshift adaptor properly. In its absence, he taped the exposed wires in place. Thulani acknowledged that the new adapter wouldn't work if any wire slipped even a little, but he only had one way to check.

He crossed back, hiding his Frankensteined adaptor against his far leg.

"Are you doing anything interesting after work?" Emmanuel asked.

"Sleep, probably," Thulani said as he knelt before Media Processor 1342-TR 4500098, his hands trembling with excitement.

"Some friends of mine are going to the cinema. They're playing some surface-era classics. It's cowboy week."

Thulani plugged the mouse cord into the server, but the exposed indicator light didn't turn on. Sweat dripped down Thulani's face. He'd need to retape. Or — Thulani angled the cord, like correcting a short, and the muted bulb flashed red. Thulani grinned victoriously and pulled off a piece of tape to secure the line at its odd angle when a shadow darkened his work.

"Thul?" Emmanual asked, his eyes widening. "What are you doing?"

Thulani froze, "I uh,"

Emanuel stepped back.

"I accidentally knocked this thing off while mopping," Thulani lied. "It was taped to the side like this. Can you help me put it back on?"

Emanuel looked at the door uncomfortably. "I don't know, maybe we should get a systems tech."

"It didn't unplug or anything," Thulani assured him, "They probably don't want it dangling on the floor."

Emmanuel considered and then knelt beside Thulani.

"There," Thulani said, handing Emmanuel the tape. The intern stuck Thulani’s thumb drive to the server at its twisted angle, and Thulani produced a second piece. "Better to be sure it doesn't happen again."

"Thulani, we should probably tell someone," Emmanuel insisted, his face tense as he stuck the second piece. "Systems are important and confusing; having a professional look this over would be better."

Thulani stood stretching his back, and the red indicator bulb stayed on. "Look," Thulani said. "I've made a lot of mistakes lately, all while the stress in the office is high. If this makes it to Jeremy, I could lose my job."

"Jeremy's not like that," Emmanuel said.

"Please," Thulani said, placing a hand on the intern's shoulder and smiling. "Trust me." He was going to be sick.

********

Recap.

Mandla and Francois wait for his men outside the Vortex rider to signal them at the Torpedo tubes for reentry.

Mandla and Francois sat on the ground, backs on the torpedo cradle. After forty-five minutes, No one knocked.

Their captives sat, mostly in silence, though they glared at Francois.

They left the hatch sealed, though Lekota could override the locks from the control room. The fact that Lekota’s men had ripped out surveillance cameras served them well now that the tables had turned.

"I'm sorry about what we did to your city," Francois said. “There are others who agree with me that executions aren’t an acceptable replacement for poor management."

Mandla didn't answer but tapped his fingers nervously on his knee.

"Corral Corsair doctrine says we're ‘order in chaos, serving those who pay us tribute,’ but we're a navy without cities. How is that any different from pirates? We call ourselves Corsair, which literally means pirate."

"Honestly," Mandla said. "I'd prefer the Corsairs to the Lagos Tide."

Francoise snorted. "The Tide wouldn't protect a city. They'd enslave it."

"At least the Corral Corsairs leave us to manage ourselves."

Francois nodded.

“Many years ago, I did basically what the corral Corsairs do, only on a much larger scale. I think I understand. I’m hoping in fighting for this backwater colony, I can do some good.”

“Redemption,” Francois said with a nod.

Mandla snorted. “I’m far beyond redemption. I don’t believe sins can be forgiven. Your works aren’t scales that you can balance. What good and what evil you do, you carry with you forever.

Mandla peeled back the sleeve of his wetsuit, exposing scarification art depicting something long and barbed coiled around a compass pointed west. A thicker, newer scar slashed diagonally split the compass in half.

“What’s that?” Francois asked.

“A broken oath,” Mandla replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “And a new promise. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I’ve vowed to protect the innocent from people like me.”

“So that’s why you’re trying to take the Vortex rider?” Francois asked.

“My employer envisions Joberg independent of the corsairs, with its own navy.” Mandla rapped his knuckles on the ground. “This is supposed to be our flagship. Provided I don’t get all of my men killed."

Francois winced. "I'm sorry about Jabulani."

Mandla nodded in agreement. "I trained my men. I lead them, and I'm the one responsible for their deaths. I’ve never led before. I wasn’t prepared for this."

"How do you carry that?" Francois asked.

"Next to my sins." Mandla sighed and shifted his rifle. "But tell me, how you can turn on the men you fought beside. You're not fighting outsiders; these are your brothers."

Francois leaned back against the torpedo cradle, his expression thoughtful. "Violence and justice can be hard to reconcile," he said. "Most would agree murder is wrong. But kill a score of enemies at war, and you're a hero. Were you a hero to the young man you killed? The one conscripted before he even had a chance to live?"

Mandla scoffed at himself inwardly.

Francois shook his head. "So, violence is wrong until you're killing for your tribe. Then it's somehow honorable? I've heard it said that morality is dead in the African Strip. But why should it be dead here yet alive in the NAU, USAR, Sinasia, or the Swahili Sultanate? Do laws define and enforce morality, or does virtue rise above the reach of governments?"

Francois chuckled wryly. "I joined the Corral Corsairs, believing they were creating some semblance of society in the Strip. I thought maybe we could bring peace instead of continuously devouring at each other's expense. But I quickly saw the Corsairs were just like a Nijan street gang, demanding tribute and threatening destruction for noncompliance. The only difference is instead of a knife in a crawlspace, we'd nuke your city.”

Francois looked at his gloved hand, contemplating what good or evil he could accomplish with it. "Indeed, we live in the darkness of the abyss under crushing pressure and freezing depths where neither justice nor mercy can survive. Yet we live, and we are warm. Where warmth endures, virtue may thrive. This may require opposing your own tribe."

Francois curled his hand into a fist. “I grew up in a smaller colony than Joberg, though we weren’t isolationists. The Akara Warboats came through and took us as slaves. I lived with them for four years and heard them whisper about the Coral Corsairs. They went out of their way to avoid Corral Corsair patrols. The Corsairs weren’t random war parties of savage ships but an organized navy. When I escaped, I enlisted the first chance I got.”

“Order in the chaos,” Mandla said.

“I’ve been with the corsairs for eight years. I loved what we represented until I started receiving orders I couldn’t obey. I’ve been punished for disobedience. I now understand I don’t have what it takes to be a Corsair, and Captain Molefe despised me for it. So when I saw a collection of colonists putting up a hell of a fight, I realized, maybe this time, I could be something other than a pirate.”

“You refused to carry certain sins in the first place.” Mandla nodded. “I wish I were that strong in my youth—”

A hollow tapping from the sealed torpedo hatch brought the men to their feet in a flash.

Francois took his position at a control panel with a separate box of buttons and switches.

"Closing tube," Francois said.

"Don't engage the locking bolt; we don't want to punch a hole in someone's chest," Mandla warned.

"I know what I'm doing," Francois said. "Depresurizing." An icon on the control flashed as he pressed a button. Air faintly hissed somewhere hidden by the hull.

"Come on, guys," Mandla muttered anxiously.

"Draining," Francois flicked a switch. An internal pump hummed, and water gurgled.

A green icon flashed, a chime sounded, and Francois spun the wheel.

Mandla held his breath as the hatch swung wide, exposing a helmet. "Get him out!"

The pair pulled a figure from the tube in a soft pressure suit many sizes too big. They hurriedly unlatched and twisted the heavy helmet bulb off to find Mbeki grinning at them.

"Lekker, let's do it again?" He snickered, his comb of dreads springing as he nodded.

"Absolutely not," Mandla said, resolute. "Are the others out there?"

"Jaja," Mbeki slipped off the torpedo cradle and began working his way out of his stiff suit. "Botha might not fit. He may need to take his oxygen off his back."

Tapping sounded from the second and third tubes, and the men got to work fishing the others from the depths.

Despite Mbeki's concern, Lieutenant Botha did fit, though he was wedged tight, and it took three men to pull him from the tube.

Stefanus, Andries, Mbeki, Lesego, and Botha. Mandla took final accountability of his men with a surge of relief. He decided not to restrain Botha; if he voluntarily crossed the outside hull with Mandla's men, there was no chance Lekota would spare him now.

"Where's Jabulani?" Andries asked. The old medic's frizzy white hair sprang wildly from his head.

Mandla shook his head. "He didn't make it."

The native Jobergians fell silent momentarily.

'This is petty officer Lekota,' The coms crackled. "We've finished getting accountability of the Eel Fang grew member. Report to the control room unless you're guarding an access hatch or escape trunk. We’ll comb the sub and sniff out any enemy stowaways. Out.'

The crowded room suddenly seemed to constrict around them. In fact, the air felt thin. Mandla cursed.

"Grab the prisoners and head for the systems bay," he instructed. “We need to get there before they find us.”

"We're not going anywhere with you," One of the corsairs bound with a cargo strap snapped.

"Trust me," Mandla said. "I promise you'll want to be with us in a few minutes."

As the team rushed towards the systems bay, they passed Jabulani’s corpse, and his slashed compass flashed in his mind. Jabulani died to satisfy Mandla’s new oath. How was he supposed to reconcile helping people when those under his command paid the price? Mandla’s jaw bulged, and Mandla tried to dismiss the intrusive sense of loss that bore into his mind like a drill.

Mandla found Leila and four of her men waiting for them with three secured prisoners. "Told you I'd beat you here," Leila said, triumphantly sitting on a stack of duffles.

"Hurry, we need to manually seal off the air supply—" Mandla sniffed, confirming his suspicion that the oxygen levels were low. "You already did, didn't you?"

Leila smiled, held an emergency respirator to her face, and breathed deeply. "Did that a half hour ago." She stood exposing a zipped duffel stuffed with emergency oxygen canisters. "Thirsty?"

"The life support alarm should be sounding," one of their prisoners said, confused.

"I disabled that before we abandoned the control room." Stefanus grinned.

Botha coughed weekly, and Leila's team distributed respirators. "Alarm or no, Lekota will realize what's happening and where we are."

As if on cue, the intercom crackled to life. 'Everyone to the systems bay; the enemy has shut off the oxygen and stolen the emergency supply!'

"Well," Lesago muttered as he secured his small canister to his back. "They know where we are now." He breathed through his mask. "And they're desperate."