Thulani glanced over his shoulder as he quickened his steps. His heart hammered, and his breaths grew heavy. What did he expect? He knew discovery had always been likely, but now that it was actually happening, doubts clawed at his resolve.

Was it worth it? Opposing the council had seemed worth the risk when discovery was just a distant possibility. But now, with reality closing in doubt clawed at him. He couldn't protect his family from a cell.

Thulani peeked around a residential tower, checking for police, and scanned the streets. He couldn't lose his head now; he had made his choice, and now he just needed to get away with it. He took a few calming breaths and stepped out into the walkway.

He needed a plan. Yes, he was being investigated but had no idea what they knew. Thulani's eyes flicked to every passerby as he scanned for signs of police. Detective Dlamini hadn't worn a uniform; any stranger could be a secret investigator. The Bulletin had his records, which meant the police knew where he lived. He couldn't go home, not that he'd be welcomed back without a plan to reconcile with the girls.

Thulani wiped the sweat from his brow as Dineo's ransacked apartment came into view. The apartment had become more than just a base of operations—it was a sanctuary, a second home. No one knew about his connection with Mosa's grandfather, and no paperwork tied him to the place.

Thulani froze. A pair of uniformed police officers stood across the road from the apartment, staring at a flickering spotlight. One scribbled notes into a pad while the other casually scanned the street.

Thulani cursed and ducked behind the nearest residential tower. Documenting defective lighting that failed to conform to lighting safety standards for repair they failed wasn't an overly unusual task for a cop. But why would it take two of them?

Thulani's heart pounded in his chest. Was he paranoid? It could all be a coincidence. Thulani counted to two hundred before he peeked back around.

Neither officer had moved. One continued writing in his notepad, or at least pantomiming the motion; the other wordlessly offered moral support.

No, Thulani wouldn't risk it. The officer's posture was too artificial. The officer with the notepad glanced up directly at Dineo's damaged hatchway.

Thulani's adrenaline surged, and he pulled himself away. There was no denying it. Dineo's apartment was being watched. He could try Floyd's, but barring that, he'd have to get creative. Thulani hiked four blocks, jumping at shadows and wiping nervous sweat.

He passed into one of the metropolis's few commercial districts when he caught sight of a woman mirroring his movements about a block behind him. Thulani made the mistake of making eye contact. He hadn't gotten a good look at her from Mr. Vemeulen's office, but the distinct jacket and purposeful stride confirmed it— Detective Dlamini.

Detective Dlamini froze, her jaw tightening as she tilted her head—a silent acknowledgment she’d been made.

Thulani quickened his gait, not to a run but enough to outpace her if she insisted on her ruse. Maybe she was just supposed to report his movements. They couldn't have enough evidence to make an arrest, could they?

He glanced back to see Dlamini jogging after him. Adrenaline shocked him like a live wire, and he ran.

"Thulani Mabaso, Stop!" she barked, her footfalls rattling against the steel grate.

Rational yielded to instinct and desperation. Thulani ran, rounding a corner and passing a law firm. Ahead, the general clinic's open hatch yawned invitingly. He hadn't visited Johan since before the City Emergency Disaster After Action Review. Maybe a check-up on the mechanic could act as a smoke screen to conceal his escape.

Thulani entered the lobby, slowing his pace and gasping for breath. A few guests looked up from their waiting room chairs as he entered. He stepped back when he saw two policemen eyeing him.

He itched to run back on the road, but something in their curious expression stalled him. Police commonly doubled as security at the hospital.

"Are you alright, Sir?" One asked.

Thulani tugged at his shirt and swallowed. "Cardio day!" he smiled sheepishly.

"What do you mean I can't leave?" A patient at the counter snapped in a familiar voice. The cops shifted their attention to this new disturbance. Thulani looked, and his eyes bulged.

Johan, clad in a hospital gown, pajama pants, and nonslip socks, towered over a young receptionist, his head held high by a milky-white neck brace.

"You haven't been discharged yet!" the woman at the counter squeaked.

Johan snorted, "What are you going to do, stop me?"

"Sir!" one of the officers barked, his coal-dark shaved head glimmering in the light. "Is there a problem?"

Johan turned to the cop, a violent gleam in his eye; then he frowned when he saw Thulani. "Thulani, what the hell are you doing here?"

A shadow passing the outside hatchway stopped, and Detective Dlamini stepped in. "Thulani!"

Thulani swallowed hard.

"Detective Dlamini?" one of the uniformed officers said with surprise.

"Mok, Ndiangani," Dlamini called to her comrades. "Detain that man!" she jabbed a finger at Thulani.

"Woh!" Thulani cried. "What's this about?"

"Thulani Mabaso, by the rights of the Joberg Counstibalry, I'm placing you under arrest for orchestrating an unlawful militia and inciting violent retaliation from raiders."

Thulani blinked dumbly. What? Mandla did that. Not him.

"I—Huh?"

"I have multiple sworn statements from your colleagues stating that you confessed to killing raiders. According to law, peaceful cooperation is required unless you have a license and are deputized by the city's official constabulary. Your reckless disregard led to the subsequent death of hundreds."

"That's absurd!" Thulani gawked. "I was defending myself." Where did this come from? They were supposed to be investigating him for hacking the city-wide broadcast, not building a secret resistance. A cold realization washed over him—he was likely the only loose end who knew of Mr. Vermeulen's involvement. Had he been set up? No, Dlamini probably wouldn't have had the chance to coordinate with Vermeulen, not after Thulani had been in Vermeulen's office just hours ago.

"Did you or did you not attack the Raiders?" Dlamini demanded.

Thulani opened his mouth but hesitated. "I want a lawyer."

"He didn't kill anyone," Johan growled from the counter, causing the officers to turn back to him in surprise. "He's too soft. I'm the one who gutted those puffers."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about!" Thulani interjected frantically. Johan knew nothing about Mandla's crew and probably assumed he was the one the cops actually wanted.

"I tore through, what, eight or nine of them myself," Johan continued. "The only thing that stopped me from climbing into their vessel and flushing the rest of them was a bullet in the neck."

The officers looked at Detective Dlamini inquisitively.

She nodded. "Him too. He must be one of them."

"You don't want to do that!" Thulani tried.

One of the officers reached for Johan, a light brown man who might have outweighed him pound for pound. Johan grinned down at him, his neck brace forcing his head up. "You really want to try that, maat?"

The officer hesitated when he heard Johan's challenge. "C'mon, Sir. Don't hurt yourself." He grabbed Johan’s arm.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

A bulbous vase housing a coral and shell bouquet disappeared from the reception counter as Johan shattered it across the officer's head.

The cop bellowed in pain as shells and glass scattered across the lobby floor. A splatter of blood spots disrupted his high, clean fade.

The second officer leaped to defend his partner, shoving Johan, who stumbled on legs stiff from days in bed.

Johan swung a fist, his neck brace impeding the motion, and the first officer doubled back on him.

"Johan, stop!" Thulani hollored, fearing a fatal escalation.

Detective Dlamini pinched a hidden receiver concealed in her collar. "This is Detective Dlamini; I've got a suspect resisting arrest at the Tshivhase Clinic, requesting immediate support.

Johan kneed the darker officer and grappled the other one, who was built like a bull shark.

"Johan, you domkop, stop!" Thulani snapped, his eyes darting to the pistols that both officers openly carried.

The bigger policeman shoved Johan against the wall, and Johan gasped as he tried to push the cop away.

The second officer picked himself up and put his hand on his service pistol.

"Wait, don't shoot." Thulani jumped in front of the officer, flailing his arms.

The cop tackled Thulani, who went down without resisting. He quickly found his face pressed into the floor, belly down as cold cuffs tightened around his wrist.

Johan's opponent hit the ground next to Thulani, and the wounded mechanic straddled the cop, rearing up a fist.

Something snapped, and twin prongs trailing wires pierced Johan's medical gown. The crackling pop of electricity buzzed through the air, and Johan tensed, his face red, a vein bulging on his forehead. Johan trembled, fighting seizing muscles as he looked up at Detective Dlamini, who clutched her taser, mouth agape. Trembling, the hulking brute rose. Blood spurted from one nostril, running over Johan's lips and staining his chin.

Thulani’s detainer tackled Johan, knocking him off his partner and locking his arm back painfully.

The downed officer grunted, whipping blood from his nose as he helped his partner restrain Johan.

Cuffs bit uncomfortably into Thulani's wrist as he lay face down on the floor. Despite the adrenaline rush and racing thoughts, one question seized Thulani’s mind. Who wanted him to take the fall for Mandla's little army?

********

Mandla fought a pinch in his throat, and his lips twitched downward as he bit down. The orderly pile of motionless figures layered out in the decomp doc tore at his soul.

In a past life, Mandla had held men closer than his brothers as they died. He had wept over their bodies, feeling a part of himself die with each one.

When Vermeulen had asked him to train his strike team, he knew they couldn’t become his brothers like before. He hadn’t expected them to feel more like his children.

His eyes blurred. He had spent years training this hoodrat team of steal workers, and they trusted him. He protected their home, yet they were the ones who paid the final price.

Junior, Fin, Sipho, Azwi, Jabulani, Vusimuzi, John, Xolani, Sicelo, Thandani, Omar, Pule.

He smiled as he recalled Jabulani struggling to get his fire team to follow orders, but like children at school, they couldn’t focus for more than a few minutes at a time. Then there was that time when Junior stole Fin’s firing pin because he didn’t want to do pushups for losing his own. After making everyone push until Mandla got the truth, Junior’s arms were like jelly for three days. And the countless nights Mandla snuck up on sleeping sentries in a training camp to pretend to cut their throats with a red marker.

His team was absolutely clueless, lacking any situational awareness whatsoever. But they had become a real unit after tears, laughter, and relentless hard work. Then, it was them vs. Mandla, and they always had a counter to every trick. There was the time he tried to steal Mbeki’s neglected dummy weapon, but Sipho practically attacked him and snatched it to return it to his comrade.

A tear slid down Mandla’s face, and he whipped it away with his thumb. The only thing harder than flushing brothers was flushing his children.

Beside Mandla, Stefanus waited with his head bowed in reverence.

Mandla opened his mouth to say goodbye yet again but couldn't find words. He never believed they would all survive, so what made him willing to sell his family's lives for victory? He clenched his jaw. He was a soldier, not a leader. What was he doing?

"It's okay," Stefanus said softly, his voice steady. "You don't have to." Stefanus sighed, the freckles on his brown skin creasing as his brows knitted together. "I'll do it."

Stefanus stepped forward. "Not many of us were saints. Most of us were criminals and thugs. Others? Simple people hoping to get by. All of us were desperate." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "What else could have dragged us into this tomb?"

Stefanus drew a deep breath. "Maybe that desperation is what binds us. Hardly ideal, sure, but in the end, they're the ones who paid the ultimate price while we get to live. I'll remember you all—your names and faces. Keep my seat warm in hell. I'll probably join you soon."

Stefanus turned and nodded to Mandla.

"Flush them," Mandla croaked.

Stefanus sealed the decomp dock and keyed in the commands. Mandla moved to the porthole, watching. Rather than collapsing the outer hatch, the chamber filled with water. Once fully pressurized, the sea-facing portal slid open, and a gentle thrust from water jets sent the bodies drifting into the abyss.

"We have company," Stefanas muttered, and Mandla turned to see Lieutenant Botha watching from the bay hatch. Mandla sighed. "I'll deal with this. They met the Botha, who nodded in acknowledgment.

"Did you send my message?" Mandla asked. "Walk with us."

"Working on it," Botha said as he fell into step. "At our current depth, I determined that an extremely low-frequency (ELF) broadcast would reach Joberg the best, but with its low data rate, I can only do a line at a time. So I have them cycling through the lines in thirty-minute intervals."

"Is our broadcast going to ping Joberg sonar?" Mandla asked.

"Oh, yeah," Botha affirmed. "But I coded the message in your cipher."

"Good," Mandla said. He hoped Vermeulen was listening.

"Sir," Botha said as the trio made their way to the wardroom.

"Yes?"

"I know you're having a war room meeting."

"That's right," Mandla said.

"As the highest-ranking Corsair, I should join."

Mandla stopped abruptly and turned toward Botha. "Let's clear this up, shall we? You're my comms specialist, nothing more. I gave you several opportunities to call off your comrades, and we had to carve our way through them. Francois is the commanding Corsair and will liaise with your comrades on my behalf. Do you understand?"

Botha took a deep breath, composing himself as his eyes hardened. He snapped to attention and saluted. "Aye, sir."

"Dismissed."

The comms officer strode away, and Stefanus and Mandla continued toward the wardroom. They had to take the long way around a flooded corridor. Even with the oxygen restored and filters online, the sub still smelled of burned chemicals, smoke, and, in some places, blood.

The pair entered the control room to find Francois and Leila waiting for them, already seated.

"Captain on deck!" Francois said, bolting to his feet. Leila cocked an amused eyebrow before struggling to stand on her injured leg.

"Sit down," Mandla instructed before taking his place at one of four circular tables. "Let's begin."

"First thing on the agenda, Sir. Viviclast contamination and repairs on the ship."

"And?" Mandla asked.

Francois rose and handed out a paper report to each meeting participant.

"There are no readings of viviclast in either flooded chamber, dormant or active, as an added precaution, however. I recommend leaving both flooded until we dock somewhere with proper decontamination gear. It'll disrupt the flow of traffic, but nothing critical is breached.

"If we're not scanning any Viviclast, why wait?" Leila asked.

"Even microscopic samples can spread and reproduce," Francois explained. "If there is any viviclast in those chambers. Flooded and sealed is the safest place to keep it."

Mandla tensed, recalling breaching the surface. "Good," he agreed. “What's next?"

"Medical report from Andries," Leila produced her stack of papers, but Stefanus rose to distribute them, considering her wounded leg. "Over half of the subs remaining crew is infirmed to one degree or another. Many of them are ordered to their quarters. The most common ailment is moderate to severe hypoxia from insufficient oxygen or decompression sickness. Based on the doctor's assessment, most will recover in the next few days to weeks."

"Does Andries have what he needs?" Mandla asked.

"He has temporarily raised the oxygen levels in the air to encourage recovery but warns that it's a fire risk." Leila raised the sheet and read a comment. "He says, and I quote, 'No smoking within five meters from the sub. If you can't wait, take it outside." Leila lowered the page. "I think that's a joke."

"Okay," Mandla said humorlessly. "What's next?"

Stefanus stood. "Probably the most crucial matter is the Joberg/Coral Corsair relations. Corsairs outnumber us by more than three to one. To discourage an uprising, we're keeping the armory locked down and disarming anyone Francois hasn't approved as definitively trustworthy."

"Why not only take the trustworthy people?" Leila asked. "Lock everyone else in the brig?"

"We need bodies and technicians to run this ship," Mandla said, shifting the two reports aside. "We're already a bare-bones crew."

"So ask Councilman Vermeulen for reinforcements," Leila said.

"All we can expect from Vermeulen in the near future is a systems tech," Mandla said. "We're waiting for Frans."

"We’ve secured a few individuals who represent the most liability," Stefanus said. "Namely Hugo, Dingane, and Leandra."

“Even though Hugo ultimately killed Lekota, he has been abrasive," Francois said.

"Who's Leandra?" Mandla asked.

Francois considered his answer. "She was often—intimate with Captain Molefe. She's devastated by his death, and while she hasn't expressed any intent to retaliate, I felt it best to know where she is."

"Stay vigilant," Mandla said. "If you hear about any mutinous conspiracies, report them immediately."

"This is ridiculous!" Stefanus exclaimed, causing the others to regard him in surprise. "We can't just play Guess Who and wait for a knife in the back."

"I've evaluated all of my comrades to the best of my abilities," Francois said.

"That's not good enough for me. I'm going to find the traitors first."

"And how are you going to do that?" Mandla asked, but inwardly, he groaned before the next words left Stefanus' mouth.

"I have a plan."