Thulani left the metropolis and made for the industrial sector, which lay in the shell of the city's thick dome. Conflicting feelings warred within as he rode an elevator up the city's outer crust. He had enacted his plan and stopped at Dineo Sello's briefly; he was delighted to find hundreds of replies to his email. Some fans from Mosa’s old following, others who lost family to the raid, asking clarifying questions. The Hardline technicians had isolated his messages after he had reached about a quarter of the city's population, but he could set up another blast from a different terminal.

Thulani couldn't smile despite this victory—an oppressive pressure twisted in his gut. He had hurt the women he desperately tried to protect. So, had he actually made the right choice?

The elevator doors opened, and he crossed a corridor, passing two men, one with a welding mask tipped back on his head and thick gloves. Further down, the sound of a grinder shrieked, and blue light flickered from an open bay.

He was finally prepared to investigate the council’s biggest anomaly. A pulsing blue neon sign over the open garage door read ‘Vermeulen Fabricating.’ He ducked into an open bay.

Mills, presses, sanders, and other hulking industrial machines dotted the factory, most of which Thulani couldn't name. The stench of motor oil saturated the air, and a handful of grimy laborers worked the machines with practiced indifference. Thulani surveyed the wide bay, noting the empty spaces. The factory could have easily fielded two dozen additional laborers. It seemed Councilman Vermeulan was short-staffed.

Thulani swallowed, his grip tight around the long, steel flashlight concealed in his pocket. He knew the torch was a fleeting, futile means of physical protection. He prayed Mr. Vermeulen would be civil enough to entertain a conversation without resorting to violence.

Thulani scanned the mill, averting his eyes from the aggressive glare of an arc welder. A boy, barely tall enough to see over the worktables, approached him. The youth wore industrial goggles over his buzzed head.

"Oi, I help you, bru?" He shouted. "Who you lookin' for, Boet?"

Thulani raised a skeptical eyebrow as he looked down at the boy. He would swallow a hook if the kid were old enough to start secondary school.

"Is Mr. Vermeulen in, Ja?" Thulani asked, matching the boy's dialect.

"Ja, he's here." The boy turned and pointed to a set of external stairs that led to a door. "Up in the office, Ja?"

"Cheers," Thulani thanked the kid, weaved through the machines, and climbed the stairs. A wide half-circle mirror overlooked the shop at the top. He rapped on the door and waited a moment before it swung inward. A stiff-necked, dark man in a suit answered. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Vermeulen," Thulani said, releasing his flashlight and smiling nervously.

"Let him in, James," a familiar voice called from the back.

The man frowned at Thulani, silently judging him before stepping aside.

Thulani stepped into a spacious loft, his gaze sweeping the open area. Mr. Vermeulen sat on the far side, surrounded by walls lined with dive salvage displayed in protective glass cases. Suspended from the domed ceiling, an oversized shark sculpted from scrap metal appeared to swim overhead.

The glass cases showcased a variety of treasures: carved wooden figurines and artifacts from shipwrecks. One wall displayed a pair of rusted, crossed cutlasses mounted above a brace of flintlock pistols. On the opposite wall, Zulu spears were arranged behind a stretched hide shield—historical artifacts from before the great submergence that Thulani remembered studying in school.

Thulani’s eyes widened as he struggled to comprehend the reason for such an ostentatious office.

Mr. Vermeulen leaned on his elbows on what seemed to be a polished wooden desk. The wealth in wood alone kept in the office could have supported Thulani's family for nearly a decade. The only trees that Thulani knew of were in Joberg’s small photosynthesis garden, a more conceptual project than a practical one, as the city’s electrolysis oxygen generators were a more efficient use of the limited space.

"Come closer, Mr. Mabaso," Mr. Vermeulen invited, motioning towards one of three chairs arrayed across the desk.

Thulani swallowed and crossed the loft, walking under the twisted steel shark's shadow. He couldn't help but imagine the cables snapping, sending the sculpture plummeting and crushing him to a pulp.

Thulani hesitated next to the chair. It was also made of wood. How could he sit in such a precious resource? What if it broke? His desire to find the truth and to flee warred within him.

Mister Vermeulen cocked an inpatient eyebrow, and Thulani settled into the seat, his mouth dry. He had come for answers, and Vermeulen hadn’t ordered him thrown out—not a bad start. "I have questions," Thulani rasped.

Vermeulen studied Thulani. "You do impressive work, Mr. Mabaso. It takes guts and real competence to expose systemic flaws."

Thulani's breath caught. Mr. Vermeulen knew. "The people have the right to know. I won't sit back and let the council cull us."

Mr. Vermeulen smiled, something cruel, a light dancing in his eyes. "I, of course, was referring to the defects in the drives you made me. You warned me they weren't ready."

Thulani went numb. "You tricked me."

"Oh, don't feel so bad. You made my suspect list for who this mystery hacker Cthulu might be, though honestly, you were near the bottom. You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you were good enough with systems to hijack a citywide broadcast."

Thulani looked down. If Vermeulen so easily teased a confession out of him, who else might suspect him? Thulani hadn't come ready to spar with Mr. Vermeulen with mind games, but he could try to meet the fabricator on his level.

"Impressive work we did," Thulani said, forcing himself to sit up straight.

"I beg your pardon?" Vermeulen cocked his head.

"I heard my drives took down a Corral Corsair war sub," Thulani leaned in.

"An unfortunate accident," Mr. Vermeulen said. "I should have heeded your warning."

"That's kak, and you know it." Thulani breathed. "You'd have to deliberately lock those drives on a sonar signature to strike them. You used them as weapons."

Mr. Velmulan glared across the table. "I recommend a degree more subtlety when discussing business."

"Theoretically," Thulani added.

"Why are you here, Cthulu?" Mr. Vermeulen asked.

"Don't call me that," Thulani said.

"Why not? If you have a work alias, you might as well use it."

"I think I understand what happened," Thulani said dismissively. "The council is having a resource crisis, so they cut out the demand instead of increasing the supply. They hire the Corral Corsairs to eliminate low-value citizens. The only thing that doesn't add up is you. You knew they were coming. You warned me to stay at home. That makes you at least partially responsible, and you were ready to counterattack when they came."

Mr. Vermeulen's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Counter attack? I don't know what you're talking about."

Thulani chewed on that reaction for a moment. Vermeulen didn't know Thulani saw a Jobergian resistance board an enemy breach pod. For once, Thulani had leverage Mr. Vermeulen was unaware of. He smiled. "I couldn't help but notice how empty your mill is," Thulani said. "At this hour, it should be full. Did you give most of your workers the day off?"

"Something like that," Mr. Vermeulen said evenly.

Thulani pushed his momentum. "And where's Mandla? I want to talk to him."

"He's on leave."

"Really?" Thulani said with feigned surprise. "It looked like he was working when I watched him lead a war party of what was probably your men into an enemy pod."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Thulani smiled. Yes, Mr. Vermeulen knew his secret, but Thulani knew Vermeulen's.

Mr. Vermeulen uttered a nearly imperceptible low growl. "You should have stayed home."

"Maybe you can help me with some answers," Thulani suggested.

"Fine," Vermeulen ceded, contemplating his answer for a moment. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Thulani said, “About the Corral Corsairs. The insufficient oxygen levels and the council’s involvement.”

Mr. Vermeulen nodded. "We live in Corral Corsair territory. They rule over nine other colonies like ours. They protect us from outside threats, and they do a damn good job at it. In return for this rendered service, they collect tithes from all of us. They let us largely govern ourselves, but believe me, there are real pirates out there who would ravage Joberg in an instant if not for the Corsairs. We live in the African strip. The Wild West, as some might say."

"So you chose them to protect us?" Thulani asked.

Mr. Vermeulen snorted. "Hardly. Third, New Durban tried to sever itself from Corsair 'guardianship.'"

"They failed?" Thulani asked.

"Thulani, Third New Durban, is an irradiated slab today."

“The Corsairs Nuked them?” Thulani gulped, his fingers tingling.

"If your conspiracy existed and if I was aware of it. You can confidently say I would vehemently oppose Corral Corsair's control."

"Well, you're on the council!" Thulani exclaimed. "You should have voted against hiring them to slaughter your own people!"

"You think I didn't?" Vemeulan snarled. "The Coral Corsairs forbid their tributary colonies from using nuclear energy. Instead, we’re forced to use geothermal power exclusively. It's insufficient to fuel our electrolysis oxygen generators. Other colonies use geothermal or fossil fuels, but that’s not enough. I've been trying to get the council to bring in atomic energy secretly, but they fear the Corsairs. I'm a fabricator, Thulani. I can save this city, but everyone else works against me."

“Why won’t they let us use Nuclear energy?” Thulani asked.

Vermeulen smiled. “They want to be the only ones with nukes.”

"You should have warned us," Thulani muttered.

Mr. Vermeulen scoffed indignantly. "I warned you."

Thulani slumped back, a million new considerations flying through his mind.

"It seems our ideals and objectives align, Mr. Mabaso," Vermeulen said. "Let's stop working around each other and start working with each other."

Thulani looked up hopefully. He needed side jobs to fill the holes in his account left from his time at the Bulletin. "You want me to work for you?" He asked hopefully. Vermeulen had the money he needed.

"Recently, my preferred systems tech has proven to be ..." Vemulan considered his words, "unreliable. I need a replacement. Thulani, you have the skill and the balls to do what I need. Work for me, and I'll clear away your debt. You still owe me 10,000 rands from your pregnancy fine. You’ll never have to drive a maintenance pod again."

Thulani practically choked. This was exactly what he needed. Mr. Vemulan could be the powerful ally he needed.

His hope stalled abruptly. A part of him recalled Olivia's fear when she found out he was doing side jobs for Mr. Vermeulen. He had promised her he wouldn't get drawn into working for him. Could he really breach her trust again? Would she understand once he started paying the bills again? What she needed was the truth, and at last, he finally had it.

"What work?" he asked.

"I need a systems tech to meet with Mandla and collect data in Pitchmarrow."

"What is Pitchmarrow?" Thulani asked.

"An oxygen refinery far south from here. Currently, the Te Ika A Ngake rule Pitchmarrow. So long as you keep their rules, you'll be perfectly safe."

"Wait! You mean leave Joberg?"

Mr. Vermeulen nodded. "We can't cut free from the Corral Corsairs until we have our own navy. I have enough factories to produce, but I need the specs. I have a contact there who will do a data trade. Until we can manufacture torpedos or war subs, we're prisoners. I won't let the Corral Corsairs do to Joberg as they did to Third New Durban."

The room seemed to spin, and Thulani suddenly felt very small. "I—I can't leave Joberg."

"You have nothing to fear; Mandla will protect you."

"I'm sorry, but I can't," Thulani stood—the anxiety of leaving Joberg reinforcing his conviction to Olivia. If he had worked with Mr. Vermeulen, their already cracked relationship would have shattered. "I didn't even know there were other places outside of Joberg."

“Yes,” Vermeulan said. “That’s what they taught you in school, but now you know better.”

The door behind Thulani opened, and Vermeulen's attendant entered. Thulani watched as he crossed the loft and whispered in Mr. Vermeulan's ear.

Vermeulen's eyes darkened, and he glared at Thulani. "You were followed."

Thulani's gut dropped. "What?" he stammered.

"One of Balthazar's?" Vermeulen asked.

"So it would seem, sir."

Balthazar, as in Police Chief Balthazar Verhoef? Thulani roze abruptly

"It would seem I wasn't the only one who suspected you, Thulani." An edge crept into Vermeulen's voice. "You shouldn't have come here. Now, the other councilmen will probably think I commissioned your little display." Vermeulen rose and walked to the bay window across the way. The half circle opened up into the workshop. Thulani stumbled after him.

"One-way glass," Vermeulan explained, but he pointed to the open garage door Thulani had entered through.

Thulani looked to see a dark-skinned woman with her hair buzzed short, trying to appear casual while wandering in the corridor beyond.

"Who is she?" Vermeulen asked.

"Detective Veronica Dlamini," the attendant said.

Mr. Vermeulan nodded knowingly. "Have our boys cook up a distraction and discreetly escort Mr. Mabaso out of my territory."

"Yes, sir," the attendant said with a nod.

“Thulani, I recommend you lay low for a while,” Vermeulan said. “If that proves impossible, you came here to ask for a job. I said no.”

Thulani staggered back, his heart racing. His Bullitin infiltration may have been a little sloppy, but now he knew—the police were watching him.

********

Mandla and Stefanus staggered to the corridor to the control room. Mandla's head reeled from decompression sickness, and his legs cramped unnaturally. He rushed down the hall but flinched as a pair of gunshots flashed from within.

No bullets whizzed by, and nothing hit him, so he pressed on.

"Take us back down!" someone gasped, winded, as Mandla lunged into the control room. Three men operated stations, and a fourth stood over Lekota's body lying on the floor. A gunshot wound to Lekota's head wept blood.

Mandla looked from Lekota's corpse to a panting, white, bald man with yellowing eyes. The man gripped a pistol which trembled in unsteady hands.

"We don't want to die!" he mumbled as he swayed with unfocused eyes.

"Agreed," Mandla said through his respirator as he leveled his rifle at the armed Corsair. "Take us down!"

One fumbled at the controls.

"Drop the gun, Hugo!" Francois said as he trained his rifle on the armed man who stood over Lekota’s corpse.

Hugo looked up, blinking dumbly, the bends—decompression sickness—clouding his mind.

"He's not getting enough air," Mandla realized. He slung his rifle and approached gently. "Let me take that weapon," he said softly as he stepped closer. The submarine shuddered.

"We don't want to die!" Hugo growled, looking down at Lekota.

"Incoming radar!" A female corsair cried. "We've got pteradyns."

Radar? Mandla cursed. Radar operated above water; any sailor who stayed at safe depths only ever used sonar.

"Get us down!" Francois cried, doubling over with a hiss of pain from the bends.

Mandla stepped up to Hugo and gently got a hand on the pistol.

Hugo gasped, apparently seeing Mandla for the first time.

"Let me have that," Mandla prompted, easing the pistol out of the man's hands.

"Pteradyns closing in!" The radar operator cried.

"We're submerged!" A young corsair with a short afro cried.

"Pteradyn weapons can penetrate shallow water!" Francois barked. “Keep diving!

The sub jumped as a high buzzing jolted the ship.

"Hull breach in the middle deck!" the operator cried. "It's not bad, but the Viviclast!"

"Viviclast can't survive underwater!" The radar operator gasped.

"Can't survive long underwater!" Francois corrected.

"Seal the breach!" Mandla ordered, stepping up to the panel. The room swayed, and his skin itched. They had surfaced far too quickly.

"Can't," the guy with the afro said. "We manually bypassed many of those doors earlier.”

Mandla looked back to Francois. They would need to be physically resealed. If Vivaclast had been introduced to the ship, they would have been as good as dead. With a hull breach, they could just as likely drown. Either way, they needed to isolate the breach from the rest of the ship.

"On it!" Francois spun and bolted from the room.

The woman on the radar slumped, her eyes fluttering, as the low oxygen and bends proved too much.

Mandla rushed to her side and pushed her out of the seat. The radar showed three blips circling back around.

"We're twenty meters down!" The Raider with the afro wept.

"Keep going!" Mandla barked.

The blue dots streaked closer to the sub in the center of the screen.

Despite his oxygen mask, Mandla held his breath. The blue dots fizzled out as they left radar range.

Seconds ticked by, but no impact followed.

Mandla breathed out slowly. "Slow our descent," he ordered. “Stabilize Pressure.”

The sailor at the controls looked at him, tense.

"Stabilize, then get air at the oxygen generator. If you still want to fight me, make it quick."

The young Corsair obeyed.

Mandla went to the comms panel and radioed to the whole sub.

"This is Mandla Zwane. We have taken this ship—again. Crewmembers of the Vortex Rider and Eel Fang. Leave your weapons behind and go to the oxygen generator for emergency respirators. Once we feel we've accounted for everybody, we'll reenable the oxygen generator. We won't flush anyone who surrenders peacefully. We'll release anyone who wants to get off at Pitchmarrow."

Mandla sat back, smelling the rubber in his respirator. Sweat ran down his neck. Soon, he'd confirm his control of this vessel, and then Mr. Vermeulen could send his systems tech.