Mandla sat with his back to the ice box, listening for any movement to violate the silence. Junior lay prone with his Vektor SS-77 mounted on its bi-pod aimed down the open door towards the control room.
They rested undisturbed for almost an hour. It seemed the enemy was going to siege them out. Sipho unclipped Azwi's kevlar helmet and lay it across Azwi's sightless cold eyes.
"We're going to die," Sipho rasped. "They're setting an ambush for us; they just need to wait until we starve, or they'll seal a hatch down the way and cut off the air supply."
Mandla considered the latter option, but if they had the means, they already would have done so. That or one of his other teams had secured the oxygen regulatory systems.
"We're not going to die," Mandla insisted. "We wait. The others will do their part."
"If they're still alive!" Sipho tugged the tourniquet on his leg. He bore his suffering better than most. "I should have known," he continued. "Working for Mr. Vermeulen is bad business. He doesn't care about us."
Mandla shifted uncomfortably. He could train his men, and he could kill, but he struggled to know what to say to a wounded soldier with low morale. He was a specialist, not a leader.
Sipho was right. Mr. Vermeulen didn't care about them. He'd probably be disappointed if Mandla died, but in the same way that a wealthy man wouldn't want to lose a luxury sub to a reef. Mr. Vermeulen saw Mandla as little more than a tool.
Mandla shifted his Vektor R5 on his lap. "I know how you feel," He assured Sipho. "This is how it always feels. It's like your sub is imploding, and there's nothing but blood and the abyss at the end of the fight. It doesn't matter how good you are; war's finality is a terrible master."
"It's always like this?" Junior spoke without looking over his shoulder, keeping his machine gun sighted on the door. "Mandla, you've done this before. A lot."
Msndla nodded, though the machine gunner couldn't see him.
Sipho furrowed his brows. "Did you train as a cop?"
Mandla shook his head.
After a pause, Junior looked back at his team leader. "Were you a raider? Like them?"
Mandla bit his tongue and stared at the floor.
Sipho's jaw bulged as he ground his teeth and looked back toward the open door.
These poor fools existed in a shell, isolated and overlooked. Joberg was their world, and anything outside was lost to the depths. Most of Mandla's men were criminals who fought for money, but they fought. Something about bleeding together made the oddest companions into brothers.
"You know," Manlda mumbled. "The world's a lot bigger than you think."
Both men looked back at him, waiting for an explanation.
"You probably think Joberg is the final bastion of humanity. That the rest of the ocean is a black abyss full of despots and murderers."
Mandla leaned forward crosslegged, his two companions watching him intently. "While you're technically correct, there are other cities, other societies. Dynasties that contend with unions and subaquatic republics."
Every word was highly illegal knowledge in Joberg as an isolationist colony. Junior and Sipho read Mandla, looking for the truth.
"Johannesburg was a grand city on the surface before the submergence. Your Joeburg is hardly a rest stop."
"That's impossible," Sipho insisted. "How could you possibly know about other cities?"
Mandla cocked an amused eyebrow. "I'm not from Joberg."
"Then where are you from?"
The intercom crackled. "Interlopers holed up in the wardroom; this is your ultimatum —"
Mandla sat up, bringing his R5 to the low ready.
"You have five minutes to proceed to the control room with no weapons. If you don't don't comply, we'll seal the hatch and blast the portal to the flooded hallway."
Mandla looked at the sealed hatch holding back the sea. It would be impossible to open unless it had a special flood function like the doors in the docking bay. They would have to use divers to blast it.
Junior looked up at the speaker wide-eyed.
"No weapons, no armor. Your time starts now."
Sipho bolted upright wide-eyed. "What are we going to do? They're going to flush us!"
"Ja ja, or they shoot us if we go!" Junior flicked his safety off. "Let's go plug some domkops."
"Shh!" Thulani hissed.
“Don't do anything foolish. Perhaps we can resolve this peacefully?"
Why were they still speaking over the intercom? The announcer spoke louder than made sense.
"Maybe we could use you, treat your wound —"
Mandla stopped listening. This was a distraction.
The subtle shift of metal on metal spun Mandla, where a section of the wall paneling slid, exposing several rifle barrels. That was not on the blueprints; of course, a Corsair sub would have smuggling hatches.
"Contact rear!" Mandla screamed as the rifles flashed.
Three impacts shook him, and he rolled over to the battered side of the freezer, gasping. Junior fell next to it, blood running down his neck.
“Clear,” marines called from the other side, and boots clattered on grated flooring.
Mandla choked and fumbled for two cylinders on his belt. Bullets fired on the other side of his cover as Vortex Rider combatants double-tapped each of his men. Mandla pulled the pins off of two smoke grenades and dropped them at his feet. He sent a frag to the other side of the freezer next. Dark green smoke hissed at his feet, and men cried out before the grenade popped in a spray of shrapnel. Mandla grasped his hip just under his body plates, and his glove came back red with blood.
********
Thulani shifted in bed. His sore body ached with fatigue, but his mind was as lucid as if he had stepped into the cold shower.
Olivia breathed deeply and rhythmicly beside him in her sleep. Ever since the pregnancy, she needed more rest and seemed to pass out the instant she closed her eyes.
Thulani turned toward her, her breath tickling his nose. He reached out and pushed a lock of ochre hair from her face. She always looked so peaceful when she slept.
He reached down and rested his hand on her warm belly. A phantom pulse ticked, which was just as likely his imagination as the child stirring. How hard could a baby possibly kick as it matured?
Olivia stirred, a soft moan of fatigue escaping her lips.
How could Thulani sleep, knowing they weren't safe? Knowing things didn't make sense? He needed answers, and he couldn't rest until he had them.
Thulani pulled the covers away, fished the raider tablet from under a folded pile of T-shirts in the closet, and slipped out of their bedroom. He flicked a built-in lamp on and went to the small living room that held the hardline console.
Malware was detected. System isolated from the hardline.
The orange banner hovered on the top and bottom of the screen. Thulani would need a systems tech to unlock the malware quarantine. Thulani squatted in front of the screen, faint blue light reflecting off his dark skin. A cord ran from a port under his terminal screen to a small black box, a portable battery. Something intuitive cautioned Thulani not to plug the raiders tablet into the hardline, so he used this new portable battery as a medium.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He pulled the cord from the port and plugged it into the tablet.
Password.
Mobilisationinmobile27
The tablet opened, exposing a file.
Maintainance docks.
Thulani tabbed through the roster, the light from the tablet casting a sickly green hue on his face. Everyone he knew was listed there. He opened individual files, and a profile loaded, complete with an official city photo.
"The hell?" He whispered as he tabbed through them. How could these raiders have such detailed files on the city's denizens?
He tabbed back and saw six names highlighted in red. Thulani whipped sweat from his brow as he opened the first one.
Bandile Le Roux.
A red banner lit up the top and bottom of the screen.
— low value.
A note gave context.
Bandile rarely goes to work on time and has poor performance reviews. He struggles with depression and anxiety to the point he is nearly low-functioning. He is an emotional liability.
Despite the heat, Thulani shivered. He didn't know Bandile well, but he knew the man well enough to recognize him as one of the four executed. He tabbed to the next one.
Addo Mbatha.
— low value.
Addo is known to cheat his time card. He has several minor theft charges and has defaulted on a debt of —
Thulani tabbed to the next one, feeling the ocean pressure bear on him and the room constrict.
Willem De Jong.
Willem is a bay manager flagged for gross negligence in safety protocol. He's responsible for over eight separate instances of work-related injury. He has low work performance reviews —
Thulani tore himself away from the tablet. All three flagged at low value had been executed. Two of the names flagged with red low-value banners were probably still alive by virtue of not being on shift during the raid.
Why?
Curious, Thulani found his name and his picture populated next to the notes.
— Moderate value.
Thulani is highly productive but can be easily distracted. He knows systems well and aspires to become a systems tech.
Demeret.
Thulani received a fine for the unlicenced impregnation of Olivia Robenson.
Thulani sat back. Their accidental pregnancy had happened less than two months ago. How could these attackers have an up-to-date dossier on the entire population? He tabbed back, more questions than answers infecting his mind.
He cocked his head.
Maintainance docks note.
Thulani opened the note.
Payment will be waiting in the primary doc near decomp dock A-7. We'll use a cargo pod to retrieve it.
Payment! Thulani read the word five times. Just as he thought, someone had hired the raiders.
Thulani went back and combed through all the departments. They all reflected low-value residents and where to find them. Two whole sections were highlighted in red: the medium-maximum security detention facility and the retirement home. Each one flashed a new banner.
— Total liquidation.
Thulani's breath caught. Why would someone clear out the prison and the retirement home? None of this made any sense.
— low value. The words flashed in his mind. Who was the low value in the eyes of society? Systemically speaking, Thulani held a list of them: the old, the dangerous, the unreliable. But who would order such a thing? Mr. Vermeulen? But if that was true, why did his guys resist the Raiders?
Thulani saw a special note in the metropolis section.
Mosa Sello — priority liquidation. Thulani knew about Mosa. She was commonly regarded as a conspiracy theorist and a paranoid type. Thulani selected her name.
— high threat. Priority liquidation.
Mosa has a following and isn't a Joberg native. She frequently tries to leak privileged information and actively speaks out against the city council.
This file held a video clip, and he opened it.
"They're all lies!" Mosa populated the screen, speaking onto a desk-mounted camera. Her voice buzzed, and the image distorted briefly. Her dark skin sagged under her weight. "They want you to think you live in a final bastion of stability, but it's a falsehood meant to control you. You exist in what the outside world calls an isolation state."
Thulani watched her dark eyes through the screen. He had never given her credence before, until now. A sudden new meaning laced her words. Why were her words so dangerous if they were mad ravings? Unless they were true.
"There are cities and empires scattered across all oceans. They tell the truth about the surface. It's gone, lost during the submersion, but you're not alone here. You might think you're a spark of hope in the night, but you're a spec of dust the council desperately tries to control —" The video feed cut off, just enough to give the raiders a description and context and sufficient to fuel Thulani with rage.
Thulani put the tablet down and stalked around the small living room. His systems technician books cluttered a small end table and a small pile stacked at the edge of the couch. Lies, violence, suffocation, and his family in the middle of it. Mr. Vermeulen had answers, and Thulani would get them. He looked back to his room where Olivia slept.
He snatched the tablet again, bringing it inches from his face, and navigated the device until he found an inbox with a message labeled OPORD.
Thulani opened it.
OPORD.
Issuing authority: Coral Corsair High Command.
Subject: Joberg raid.
Parties: Crew and marines of the Eel Fang and Vortex Rider.
Context: The Joberg life support systems are nearing critical output; they can't support the current population. They rely on a geothermal power plant that can't support their Dissolved Oxygen Extraction system. They have been relying on reserve resources. It falls upon us to save the city, which is our sworn duty to protect.
Mission: Utilize the population index to liquidate low-value non-contributers. Priority targets include the penitentiary, the retirement home, and the hospital. Collect payment from the maintenance docs.
Note: Secure the prison's detainees for recruitment. The council wants us to flush them, but this will serve both of our purposes.
Rules of engagement: Once low contributor persons have been identified, liquidate them. Use force to protect yourselves. If we can't find enough low contributors, escalate to moderate-low contributors. We are expecting minimal resistance.
Note: Avoid the city hall, where the council and the majority of the police force will be. The law enforcement force has been instructed not to engage unless first engaged.
Timeline: 1015-1215. Work fast.
Thulani sat back agast. The city council failed maintenance and ordered a culling to offset its deficiencies. Memories of Johan and Mandla tickled Thulani's mind. The raiders expected minimal resistance and were, therefore, ill-prepared for those ready to fight.
Thulani looked at the hardline terminal and shied away from the screen frozen on the old and new life support reports: 18.8% and 21.7%. The Life support report had no bugs or glitches, but it had been doctored to mask the council's failure. It was too much. With a malevolent council and low air, how could Thulani get Olivia a respirator now? Thulani froze, a chill shaking him. Maybe he didn't. The raid had effectively culled the population. What did that mean for life support systems? Would they stabilize? Was this somehow a necessary evil? Thulani's hands balled into fists. No, he was tired of being a lab shrimp. His family lived here, and he'd swim out of a decomp chamber before he allowed the council to control them.
********
Captain Kabelo Levato Molefe looked up as Sergeant Katherine Aldridge entered the Vortex Rider Control room with her fire team. Operations officers turned to her as she offered a salute.
Captain Molefe leaned on the railing. "Where's Senior Sergeant Khumalo?" he asked, his face slick with stress sweat.
"Fragged," Sargent Aldridge reported; she looked down, her face streaked with grease and blood. "He didn't make it."
"And the enemy?" The captain's dark knuckles lightened as he gripped the bar.
Sargent Aldretch hesitated. "One got away," she muttered.
"How?" Captain Molefe barked, slamming the rail with a fist.
"He popped smoke and slipped away in the chaos." She looked up hopefully. He's wounded; we think he might bleed out.
More soldiers filtered into the control room.
"How is this possible?" Captain Molefe snapped, spittle flying as he trembled in fury. "One fire team. One! Has systemically cut down over thirty of our men!"
He searched the helpless faces of his men and failed to find answers. "Are you not Coral Corsair marines?"
The dejected soldiers looked away. "I asked a question; damn it!"
"We are, Sir!" Sargent Aldridge cut in, the unfortunate defacto leader of this group.
Captain Molefe circled the railing going down to their level. "Are we not a trained navy?"
"Aye, Sir, we are," the sergeant responded, staring ahead at attention.
"So, how the hell does a fireteam from an isolationist colony infiltrate and make us look like a scavenging crew?"
Sergeant Aldridge's lip trembled before she answered. "Sir, I think it's not an unreasonable assumption that these are outsiders hired to retaliate. We've been double-crossed."
Captain Molefe nodded. She was correct; it was the only thing that made sense. "So what? Are Dynasty or USAR agents embedded this far into the African strip? Because I promise you the Lagos Tide or Currant Surfers couldn't have done this!"
"No," Sergeant Aldridge agreed. "But maybe the Brass fleet or they could be Swahili."
Captain Molefe cursed. More questions; he needed answers. "If you can bring me the last one alive, do it. If not, kill him." The captain turned to the communications officer. "How are the rescue pods doing?"
Lieutenant Botha pulled a headset away from his ear. "We've made contact, Sir," he confirmed. They've located survivors, and it'll take hours to get them out.
Great, and what if they had more survivors than he could support on his oxygen reserves? He had to get back to Fort Green Reef. He'd have hell to pay from high command for this failure. For one blasphemous moment, he played with the idea of going over to the brass fleet, a lawless coalition of deserters. No, they were betrayed. In the end, Joberg would pay the price.
Captain Molefe stopped when he saw deep crimson drops reflecting almost black in the dim light of the control room. A trail of spatterings left a path. He had more soldiers in the control room than usual, many from the Eel Fang's crew. He followed the trail, leading to a soldier angling away, trying to blend in. The soldier's dark eyes met his, and Molefe threw himself back.
The assassin whisked his pistol, Vektor Z88, from his holster and fired.
Captain Molefe grabbed the startled Sergeant Aldridge and jerked her into the path of the bullet. She staggered and sagged in his grasp. The control room erupted into a mess of shouts and gunfire. The assassin cut down two men with a curved knife and missed a shot at Lieutenant Botha. He moved expertly but favored his right side, overcompensating for some injury.
Captain Molefe leveled a shot with his pistol just as the assassin threw himself to the other side of the communication panel. The corsairs leveled their weapons.
"Wait!" Lieutenant Botha cried. "Don't take down coms!"
The final soldiers, about thirteen in total, fanned out, aiming at the infiltrator's cover and daring him to peek out.
A metallic ping sounded, and a hand hovered over the panel, gripping the spoon to a grenade without a pin.
Captain Molefe cursed and staggered back. Released in the control room, most would die, and it could cripple most critical functions in the ship.
"Parlay?" The man asked from the other side, his voice smooth and soft.
Captain Molefe Gridded his teeth. "Agreed."
"If you shoot me, I drop this, and we all go," The enemy reminded, not the captain but his trigger-happy men.
"Hold your fire," Captain Molefe ordered; his men dropped their carbines to the low ready.
The man stood, wearing Coral Corsair fatigues. The black and teal body armor bore a few chips of spiderwebbed bullet impacts.
"Who are you?" Captain Molefe demanded.
The man studded each of the Coursirs rapidly. "My name is Mandla Zwane," He said, his voice like smooth eel butter. "And I'm here to negotiate the terms of your surrender." He held the grenade over his head.
Captain Molefe snorted. "You may have us trussed against the barnacles, but if you think you have enough leverage to do anything other than plead for a quick death —
"Are you refusing to negotiate?" The man asked, glancing at a few men in the room.
"The only thing we're negotiating is your surrender. Put the pin back in the frag," Captain Molefe ordered. "You fought well today, but this is the end. I have you hopelessly outnumbered."
"I don't know," The man muttered. "I think I'm less outnumbered than you believe." He held out his left hand, grenade pin dangling from his forefinger, and he made a signal by curling that finger and his thumb, exposing his pinky ring and middle fingers.
Around them, five men (probably all from the Eel Fang, as the captain didn't recognize them) responded, making an L with their thumb and forefinger. What—
The captain's blood chilled. He hadn't been infiltrated by one team but many. He whirled, raising his pistol, and the five turned their rifles on his men, bringing the control room to life with hot flashes of rifle fire. The captain dropped one with a shot between the eyes — The assassin!
He reacted too late. The man crossed the distance and swiped his gloved fist, still clutching the grenade in front of the captain's neck, and slapped the back of the glove with his left hand. The water knife hissed, spraying a concentrated jet of water that tore through soft flesh at Molefe's throat.
He went down gagging as icy, depressurized water and hot blood mixed down his neck and chest plate. He trashed, but his vision dimmed.
The fight stopped, or maybe he just couldn't hear it anymore.
"We got 'em, boss," One of the invaders said. "The control room is ours now."
"Launch torpedos," Their leader said, so soft the fading captain barely made out his words. "Destroy the Eel Fang wreckage with every other pod down at the site."
Captain Molefe passed on.