Recap.

After plugging Maleware into The Joberg Oceanic Bulletin’s servers the day of the unity concert has arrived. Thulani weighs the cost of Justice against the risk of action.

"Wait? You have work tonight?" Olivia asked in surprise.

"Emergency shift," Thulani apologized as he zipped his red jumpsuit. "Honestly, they might move my shift forward one day.

Olivia frowned. "How long did it take for us to get our work weeks lined up?"

"I know, Liefie." Thulani leaned over and kissed her forehead. I'll see what I can do to change it back." Thulani swallowed. The lies came more naturally now. He had buried the guilt deep, but now it gestated within him. Thulani was under no illusion he could keep his vigilante extracurricular secret from the girls indefinitely, but he was so close to exposing the council that he forced it away.

"What will you do tonight?" he asked.

Olivia bit her lip thoughtfully. "If you're not here, Nandi and I might invite some of the girls over to watch the Sabrina Millis unity concert. It's being broadcast for free to the whole city."

"Trust me," Thulani muttered. "I'm aware. I'm surprised you didn't buy live tickets to watch the show. I know how much you like Sabrina Millis."

"Oh, I wish," Olivia exclaimed. "But they're so expensive."

Thulani lightly grabbed her shoulder. "Once we pay off the fine, I'll find a way to take you to a live show."

Olivia reached up and squeezed his hand with a smile, and the pit in his stomach sunk deeper.

Thulani left with an adapter, thumb drives, and a small soldering pen hidden in a lunch bag. His stint in the server room had taught him several lessons about being prepared, and he wouldn't be caught without the tools he needed ever again.

He hurried to Dineo Sello's apartment. Repairmen had marked the breached hatch with paint on key restoration points, but the yawning opening remained exposed. Entering his lair, Thulani changed out of his pod tech jumpsuit into his business casual media tech clothes.

Before leaving, he stopped at the back wall, silent and reverent. Three hundred twelve photos decorated the surface. When the bulletin had printed several copies of each raid victim’s photo for a memorial display, Thulani had quietly pocketed a packet. He stopped near Tshepo’s photo—the victim he knew best. “I can’t make this right, but I’ll do my best,” He promised.

He left Dineo's and rushed to The Joberg Oceanic Bulletin. The concert must have started at the City Hall steps because distant cheering echoed down the steel metropolis as he passed through the Bulletin’s front hatch.

Thulani waved to Ngwenya, the receptionist, but the young man's eyes were glued to the monitor playing the concert live in the lobby. Glancing at the screen, Thulani saw Sabrina Millis strutting down the stage constructed on the town hall steps. Hundreds, if not thousands, of fans screamed, most of them younger women.

Sabrina Millis drew a microphone to her lips. “This one’s for those we lost. For those we remember.”

She launched into "Tides We Can’t Turn," a song Thulani recalled she had written when her father passed away.

Thulani stepped into the cubical studio unchallenged, his entry-level worker badge swinging from a lanyard around his neck. About eight employees crowded around a tremendous wall-mounted monitor, watching the same scene as in the lobby. Thulani ducked, scanning half-cubicles, and was relieved to find most empty at this hour. Journalists used these cubicles to write articles—no surprise, as most journalists would be at the concert in person. Thulani slipped into one he had noticed seemed communal.

At the keyboard, Thulani's fingers moved swiftly.

User: Samuel.R.Ntsane

Password: passwordqwerty123

The video editor's virtual desktop loaded, and Thulani peeked over the divider. Samuel wasn't at his usual place. Undoubtedly, he had been summoned to the production studio with the other editors for such an important live event. Thulani glanced at the double doors leading to the studio. Director Milani herself would be inside, overseeing the broadcast.

Thulani pulled up the broadcast, muted it, split the screen, and opened the network file system. His hands trembled, and his heart fluttered treacherously as he navigated through folder trees. He hadn't been on the system to confirm his work after the server room.

"Please be there," Thulani whispered to himself. The file could have been flagged as malware, and Emanuel could have reported it despite Thulani's pleading. The hastily improvised adaptor could slip, and even subtle motion or temperature fluctuations could cause the wires to shift in his hasty tape job.

Thulani didn't realize he was holding his breath until he opened the final file nested in 'Media Processor 1342-TR 4500098'.

Thulani clutched his hands together as he stared at his file embedded in the Bulletin's media processor. A default file icon lay seemingly undetected, its name hovering underneath—Cthulu.

Thulani peeked over the edge of his half-cubical at the wall monitor as Sabrina Millis finished her song, and the crowd erupted into cheers. On his screen, the muted broadcast lagged by three seconds.

His fingertips went numb. Did he really want to do this? It was possible he could go back to his old job; things could return to how they were. One keystroke could ruin his life—or avenge Tshepo and the hundreds of others slaughtered by the city council. What about the girls? If this backfired, they would pay a price for his actions.

When Sabrina announced something, he turned his focus back to his screen. Though the sound came from the wall monitor, he watched his own, undistracted by the delay.

"Thank you!" Sabrina said, her voice carrying over the audience, though quieter than usual. She paused, looking over the crowd before continuing.

"Thank you, Joberg!" She said, her sad smile fading into something more somber. "I'm honored to be here today. But today isn’t a celebration. We come together to honor those we lost."

The crowd quieted, and Thulani leaned in.

"You all know about the tragedy that took place not long ago. We lost loved ones, friends, and family."

Sabrina's eyes glistened, and her voice raised. "I wrote this next one in their memory because I refuse to forget them."

She bowed her head, and a spotlight beamed down on her as other flashing stage lights blinked out. Her low, haunting voice pierced the silence.

Echos in the night—I hear them.

Shadows in the night—I'm near them.

Three hundred twelve, lights snuffed out.

Whispers of the lost still shout.

Thulani didn't care for mainstream music unless it was fun or upbeat, but his hair stood on end as he listened to Sabrina's song. Sabrina's voice swelled into a chorus, and he moved his hovering finger away from the mouse.

We burn with the heat of the earth below.

We burn as the tides in our spirits grow.

We burn and in the warmth we thrive,

together we rise, our hopes alive.

Thulani frowned; why did that sound so familiar?

Memories of a home—they haunt me.

Voices of the past—they taunt me.

In the ashes left, we stand strong,

fighting for the ones who belong.

Thulani took his hand off the mouse to listen and to think. Was he sure justice was the most important here? He could walk away, and the raiders would likely not negatively impact his family for another decade or until another resource crisis. Was systemic justice worth risking his family?

We burn with the heat of the earth below.

We burn as the tides in our spirits grow.

We burn and in the warmth we thrive,

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

together we rise, our hopes alive.

In his heart, Thulani felt that fighting for a home he could trust his child to was right, but was this the best way to achieve it?

Sabrina's voice shifted from strong and heroic to soft and vulnerable. Thulani leaned in to see the glimmer of tears on her face.

From the depths of pain, we'll break free,

In the face of loss, we will see.

United we stand, hearts ablaze,

Guided by our dreams, we'll find ways.

Red and yellow lights ignited on the stage, illuminating almost two dozen backup dancers. The music erupted and went up a key.

We burn with the heat of the earth below.

Thulani's eyes widened. He had heard these words before.

We burn as the tides in our spirits grow.

Ripped right from Councilwoman Madeline Miller's speech.

We burn and in the warmth we thrive,

together we rise, our hopes alive.

Thulani clenched his jaw. This wasn't a heartfelt tribute; this was state-commissioned propaganda—A smoke screen that had even drawn him in for a moment.

The music swelled again as Sabrina prepared to repeat the chorus.

We burn—

Thulani seized the mouse and clicked on his icon, running his malware.

The screen shut off, and startled murmurs from the other side of the cubicle drifted over.

Thulani held his breath, waiting for his message to play, but nothing happened.

A notice flashed on the screen: Incompatible video format.

Thulani swore. Rather than exposing the council, practically every screen in Joberg notified the people about his incompetence.

A howl of rage from the production studio compelled Thulani to peek over the cubical as Director Milani stormed through the double doors.

"Figure out what happened, and fix it now!" Director Milani shrieked, scattering the techs who were watching the wall monitor.

Thulani ducked behind the safety of his cubicle; his whole plan shattered around him. He could be skilled in tech; hell, he could be gifted, but that didn't make him proficient at video editing.

"We have no idea what's going on, but we can't get anything to play," A frantic voice on the other side of the cubical panicked.

Thulani slumped back on his chair, numb. What did this mean? Did he ruin the concert for nothing?

"Troubleshoot," Director Milani snapped.

Thulani sat up. Troubleshoot, of course. He was in a video editor’s system; he could reformat his footage.

He rummaged through his pocket and retrieved a backup thumb drive. He plugged it in and opened Samuel's editing software. He could reformat his video to fix the file incompatibility. A strange interface loaded on the screen, and his eyes darted as he searched for the right option.

Import media.

Thulani transferred a copy of his video from the reserve thumb drive. The video would leave a digital signature on their systems and, unfortunately, incriminate Samuel if discovered. The video populated the timeline, and Thulani hovered through a dozen dropdowns.

"Give me answers, people!" Milani called.

A rushed reporter passed behind Thulani but didn't stop or look back.

Export.

Thulani clicked, and his heart dropped when he saw dozens of format options. He might as well have been reading a different language. Sweat dripped down his neck as he searched them for any likely candidates. He almost clicked on one when he realized the default option saved was Samuel's preset, which would likely be compatible with the Bulletin’s software.

Export. He clicked again, reformatting his video with Samuel’s presets.

A rendering bar popped up, crawling slow enough to drive Thulani mad.

"Should we shut it all down?" someone asked from deeper in the room. "Reboot the system?

30%

"Come on!" Thulani hissed under his breath.

"Give it a minute. And get a systems tech in here. This could be a systems issue!"

70%

Thulani's heel bounced incessantly, and he checked over his shoulder.

100%

Thulani dropped the file on the desktop and dragged it to his malware icon. The broadcast flickered to life, showing a whiteboard in front of a sheet backdrop illuminated by a work-like.

A single word was inked across the board in red letters: lies! An abrupt transition exposed a new word on the same backdrop: betrayal.

"Hello, My name is Cthulu," His voice-over started.

"What the hell is this?" Milani gasped.

"I've taken over this broadcast to reveal the truth."

Thulani deleted the video from the desktop and emptied the wastebasket.

"Your city council has been lying to you. They failed to manage their air supply, so they doctored the report to show false numbers."

Thulani logged out, grabbed his bag, and stalked out of the cubicle. The large screen outside the block showed two pages, each displaying a different life support report—his old report frozen beside the false official version.

"Shut it off," Milani gasped as Thulani strode past her.

"Instead of being honest with you citizens of Joberg or taking legal emergency measures, they hired a paranavy called the Corral Corsairs to cull our population."

Thulani glanced at the lobby screen as he exited the Bulletin. Low-value profiles from the Corsair tablet flashed across the monitor.

Outside, Thulani heard his voice amplified and muffled by the distance echoing from the stage.

"They started with the prison and the rest home. The council provided targets and instructions on how—"

The booming echo cut off as Thulani strode down the street. The Bulletin must have shut down the system. That was unfortunate; that wasn't even a fifth of his presentation. That didn't matter. He caught their attention, and now, based on a pre-set timer, his computer at Dineo Sello's was automatically firing off hundreds of emails at a time to everyone in the city directory. Every resident would have the proof and presentation compressed and sent to their home terminal by morning. Now, the only question was whether this stunt interested them enough to open it.

********

Recap.

After disabling the Vortex Rider’s oxygen generator, Mandla's crew waits as Lekota sweeps the Vortex Rider.

"We shouldn't use these respirators yet," Andries insisted.

"Why not?" Thulani asked.

"Because your math's all wrong." Andries pointed to the now-disabled workings of the electrolysis oxygen generator. "Even with this shut-off and reserve oxygen tanks sealed, this is a destroyer, and there are maybe, what, fifty people breathing on board?"

"Sounds about right," Mandla affirmed.

"This is a destroyer class sub; even with the CO2 filters disabled, oxygen levels would need to drop to 16% before we would experience hypoxic severe conditions. Now, I don't know how many cubic meters of air this sub can hold, but it's enormous. A single person will consume about five hundred fifty liters daily, probably more if we're fighting. Don't expect enemies to start rolling over in the next hour. I would say we more realistically have seven to nine days before the enemy truly comes begging for emergency canisters, assuming we've got them all."

Mandla cursed. "Leila, did you get all of the personal emergency canisters?"

Leila shrugged. "Most of them. There are way more enemy soldiers than us, and they'd have to fight over what few canisters they have while we have plenty in reserve."

Mandla looked to Francois, who was training his rifle at the top of a ladder hatch. "I assume this sub can vent," he said.

Francois nodded, not taking his eyes off the hatch. "Yeah, but only from the control room."

Mbeki raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting through his yellow-lensed goggles. "Hold up; why the hell would a sub need to vent air?"

Most of the others shot Mbeki a pointed look, exchanging glances.

"What?" he grumbled defensively. "I’m dumb. Not all of us finished secondary school, okay?"

Mandla sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Viviclast," he muttered.

"What's that?" Mbeki repeated, glancing between the others. Francois dropped his rifle barrel in disbelief.

Andries turned toward Mbeki with a raised eyebrow. "You really don’t know what caused The Great Submersion?"

Mbeki shrugged sheepishly, "Nuclear fallout?"

Andries shook his head. "Wrong. Viviclast. It’s what drove us down here. A gas or some sort of microorganism. We don’t fully understand it—science can't explain why it reproduces to fill space, but it can’t get through water."

"Even if a tiny bit gets in the sub, it would expand and kill us all," Francois said.

Mbeki grinned unbothered. "Not us, we have masks."

Lesego chuckled quietly, shaking his head at Mbeki's cluelessness.

"We would physically melt into sludge," Mandla explained.

"Oof." Mbeki’s face lost a little bit of its color. "Yeah, venting protocols make sense now."

"We need to burn through the oxygen quicker," Stefanus called, covering the hatch behind them. "I saw thermal flares in almost every bay's emergency box."

Andries looked up, nodding in agreement. A near madness gleamed in the doctor's eye. "In addition, we could introduce harmful breathing agents to the air as well. The ventilation seems to be still running, which would help circulate it to the ship." Andries nodded. "I'm going to look for cleaning agents; if I can burn some Acetone or plastic components, this sub will get spicy real fast."

Someone pounded on the hatch at the top of the ladder.

"Francois, it's Lungile and Mavinus. Don't shoot. We're coming down."

All of the weapons in the corridor swept upward, fixing on the ceiling hatch. Mandla caught Francois and Lesego’s eyes. Both men nodded. If Mandla recalled correctly, his turncoats had initially vouched for these two. Still, it could be a trap, but Mandla was desperate for more bodies.

"Hold your fire."

The hatch swung open, and gunfire reverberated in the upper corridor.

"Hold!" Mandla barked again, worried one of his men might assume they were being fired on. Until he spotted a muzzle, he didn’t want to shoot potential allies.

One man dropped down, ignoring the ladder entirely, while the other scrambled after him, swinging the hatch shut. Francois and Lesego rushed to their aid. The first newcomer, a stocky light-brown man, picked himself up, unhurt from his fall. The second, a dark-skinned man with an impressive coiled beard, glutched a gunshot wound on his arm.

"Lekota’s crazy!” The light brown man panted as rounds impacted against the steel hatch above. “He flushed Khumalo and Mokopane—said questioning him made them disloyal. He hates us. We were next.”

The darker man groaned as blood seeped between his fingers. “He’s swept the top two decks; he’s coming here next.”

"You, go with Stefanus," Mandla ordered, pointing to the light-brown, uninjured man. Ordinarily, introductions would be appropriate, but with the enemy bearing down on them, Mandla sprang to action. "Gather every thermal flare you can find and light it up. Consolidate any chemicals or cleaning solutions available."

Mandla turned to Andries and pointed to the wounded newcomer. "Patch him up, then join Stefanus. Do not let the fires get out of control."

Mandla unslung his rifle and shouldered it. "Everyone else, fall back out of grenade range and make them pay for every inch of this corridor in blood."