“This is new,” Sands said to no one.
He was about to whack the side of the monitor with his hand, but he heard inmates up and down the cell block doing just that. So it wasn’t just his monitor. Confusion and anger echoed all around him. The inmates did not like having their allotment of video entertainment interrupted.
Somewhere on top deck a siren sounded. There was a deep rumble below decks, and a moment of frightening silence.
“Sands,” Rashid called to him. “Sands, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know. A storm maybe?”
A brilliant flash of light penetrated the ship, all the way to deck nine. For a moment, Sands was dazzled, as when the lights in the arena blazed up before Battle. This was no storm, he told himself, and that was no lightning flash. Sands stood in the center of his cell, his stance wide, his senses at full alert. From the next cell, he could hear Rashid praying in Arabic. Except for Rashid, the ship was dead silent, and with sixty-thousand other souls, Sands waited for whatever would come next.
The thunder of a thousand freight trains shuddered through the ship’s steel hull. The deck beneath Sands’ feet pitched violently, and he was thrown against the grate. With a terrifying groan, the ship listed to the port side, farther and farther, as if it was about to roll over. The stern simultaneously seemed to slide down some great swell, sending the deck into a slow, sickening spin.
Twining his fingers through the grate, Sands held on as best he could. Either the ship would continue to list until it flipped, or it would roll back upright. Either way, he was in for a ride.
Screams, sirens, the thud of tumbling bodies filled his ears. He shouted to Victoria, but she was oblivious, her head lolling about under her long red mane as her torso was held fast to the grate by her restraints.
The ship did not roll over. Just as Sands’ feet were losing their purchase on the deck, the ship stopped listing, rolled back in the opposite direction, and then rocked itself upright.
The lights had gone out, replaced by the feeble, greenish glow of the auxiliaries. From somewhere far above, top deck perhaps, Sands thought he could hear gunshots, maybe chopper blades. It was difficult to make out anything clearly in the din made by the terrified inmates.
In the next cell, Sands could tell that Rashid was prostrate, praying. Victoria was out. He could make out a few others cowering in their cells like frightened children. Sands grabbed the grate of his cell and rattled it with all his might, but nothing budged. It was intact. No stress points, no weaknesses were apparent to him.
There was no mistaking it now. He could hear explosions from above. It sounded like a battle was being waged. If the ship were to go down, he would have less chance than a rat.
The grate was too strong to be breached with just his hands and feet. Sands surveyed his cell, looking for anything that could be used as a tool, a weapon, any point of weakness that might be exploited. He turned a malevolent eye on the steel toilet. It burbled with brown insolence. He attacked it with everything he had, kicking it, wrenching it, pulling on it, but the welds held firmly. In a rage now, he picked up his food tray, and holding it like a shield against his forearm he charged against the grate, bashing it again and again until he fell to his knees in exhaustion.
Two hours later, Sands was again sitting in the center of his cell—not meditating, just staring into the semi-darkness. The ship was stable now. The sounds of guns and helicopters had ceased, and the inmates were relatively quiet. The rumble of the engines and the churn of the great propellers could be heard, below and aft, in their ceaseless turning, a sign that the ship was still operational, even if not quite back to normal. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait.
Sands heard the scrape of a sandal on the deck, and two eyes appeared, glowing like pinholes in a feeble shaft of light.
“Helter Skelter.”
Sands, who had trained himself to manifest a meditative state, even in pitched battle, nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Jesus! Are you trying to scare me?”
The figure moved closer in the light. It was Ahmer.
“It’s helter skelter.”
Sands got up and went to the grate.
“You’ve got to help us, Sands. It’s helter skelter. All is helter skelter.”
“Ahmer, I swear, if you speak the title of my least favorite Beatles song one more time, I’ll—”
But looking into Ahmer’s face, he swallowed his threat. Sands had seen enough in war to know what real fear looked like.
“What is it, Ahmer? What’s happening?”
“They left us. The Captain, the Warden, the guards. They all left. You’ve got to help us.”
“Help who?”
“The Techs.”
“The…” Sands laughed. “You mean the Drones? You want me to help the Drones? The little creepy-crawlies that are always buzzing around watching everything we do?”
“I can get you out.” Ahmer pulled from his pack the electronic hand device that served as a key to all the cell hatches.
Sands’ interest was piqued, but he wanted to know more. “Why did the guards leave?”
“The war.”
“Korea?”
Ahmer nodded.
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“I told you, it’s hel— Everything is chaos. The whole world.”
Sands doubted that. Maybe the conflict had spread, but if it had been global nuclear war they wouldn’t be talking right now.
“Why didn’t the crew take you with them?”
“They say they will come back, but we don’t believe them. Like you say—we’re just Drones.”
Sands nodded at the hatch.
“So open it.”
“You promise to help?”
“Open it.” Sands’ tone made clear it wasn’t a suggestion.
Ahmer fingered the keypad on his device. The indicator light on the hatch turned from green to red, and the latch popped. Sands pushed the hatch open and stepped through, Ahmer cringing back from him. It was the first time since Inferno had been commissioned that an inmate had been outside his cell without restraints and a squad of armed guards.
Sands nodded at Victoria’s cell. “Hers too.”
Ahmer took another step back. “I can’t. They took the chip. You saw they took it.”
Sands shoved Ahmer against the bulkhead, one massive forearm pressed against his windpipe.
“Do not fuck with me, Ahmer. Unless you want to die, you open that hatch. Understand?”
Ahmer managed a nod, and Sands released the pressure. Ahmer reached into his pack, and Sands snatched it from him with snake-like quickness. He rummaged through it, satisfying himself that Ahmer had not secreted some weapon before handing it back.
Ahmer found an inner pocket, unzipped it, and produced a ring, like a keyring, with multiple chips attached to it.
“You tricky little bastard.”
Ahmer managed the slightest of smiles as he selected a chip and inserted it into his tablet. His fingers danced over the keypad, and in a moment, Victoria’s cell was open. Sands clambered in, unfastened Victoria’s restraints, and carried her out. Her eyes fluttered, but she was in no condition to walk.
“All right, let’s go.”
“Sands!” Rashid called out to him. “Sands, take me with you!”
Sands looked at him, for the first time getting a good look at the slight, bearded man with the swept-back silver hair. Rashid pleaded with his eyes as Sands weighed the angles. Already the other inmates were taking up the call to be freed.
“We have to go,” Ahmer said.
Rashid looked at Victoria. Her face was flushed, her eyes darting sightlessly, like one having a dream.
“On the outside I was a doctor,” he said. “I can help with the girl.”
Sands nodded for Ahmer to open Rashid’s cell. Ahmer’s eyes sounded silent alarms, but he obeyed without comment.
The moment Rashid was out, the clamor around them increased, s
preading from cell to cell throughout the block: “Me too, Sands! Open up! Let me out!”
Ahmer looked at Sands in terror, fearing the order he seemed certain would come. But Sands just stepped aside and indicated for Ahmer to lead the way. The young Pakistani hurried toward the main elevator, Rashid close behind. Before Sands followed after them he favored his fellows with a smile and said, “Sorry guys. Catch you on the other side.”
-7-
It is the old practice of despots to use a part of the people to keep the rest in order.
—Thomas Jefferson
The jeers and thrown debris of Sands’ block-mates were just a taste of the bedlam that followed him and his unusual party as they made their slow ascent from Treachery to Limbo deck. The main elevator was an open cage that put them on display for anyone with an eye-line, and the sight of two unshackled inmates and a woman being led by an unarmed Drone generated more excitement than a battle royal in the arena. Sands could feel the furor building as the gossip mill ginned up, rumors forming and spreading through the ship like ripples over still water.
“Next time,” Sands remarked to Ahmer, “we take the back stairs.”
When Ahmer opened the hatch that led to the top deck, Sands and Rashid were staggered by the dazzling sunlight. Sands let Victoria’s feet fall to the deck as one hand reflexively went up to shield his eyes. Almost as shocking to their systems, after years of being locked up inside a reverberating tin can, was the natural quiet and freshness of the open air. As their eyes and ears adjusted, they could see the blue of the sky, hear the waves and seagulls, feel the cool air against their skins and in their lungs.
Ahmer was eager to get to the Vestibule, but he gave the two men their moment. They each leaned back against the bulkhead, their eyes squinted against the glare, their faces lifted to the sun. Just listening. Just feeling. But their blissful moment was brief. When their eyes had adjusted enough that they could fully open them and look around, they saw the wreckage of a Marine helicopter burning on the flight deck, and in the distance, the towering remnants of a mushroom cloud.
“I told you,” Ahmer said. “The world is gone crazy.”
Ahmer led them across a space of open deck to the recessed entrance to the Vestibule, situated like a dank basement to the airy, glassed-in expanse of the Command Deck above it. As far as Sands could tell, the Command Deck was deserted, as was the entire top deck of the ship. It was eerie to see such a big space so empty of people. Ahmer rapped at the hatch of the Vestibule three times—one long, two short—and waited expectantly for the lock to turn. But the signal didn’t take. From inside, a muffled voice said, “Is that you, Ahmer?”
Ahmer stepped back, looked up at the surveillance camera perched above the recess, and held up his hands in annoyance.
And these are the guys, Sands thought, who are the brains of the ship’s security system.
The hatched opened, and they stepped inside, the dim interior a welcome relief to Sands’ and Rashid’s smarting eyes. The place was a hacker’s paradise—jam-packed with monitors, keyboards, and all sorts of electronic equipment, some original, but some obviously improvised by the tech-savvy Drones. The set-up was two concentric hexagons—a central command unit with six swivel seats and wrap-around consoles that represented the Drones’ individual work stations—and the interior wall, where there were more graphic displays, work benches, storage cabinets, and tool racks. Every available surface was piled with hacker flotsam and jetsam—decommissioned CPUs, joysticks, cables, headsets, game pieces, and food containers. There were no windows—unless they were hidden behind the dart board or the Bollywood movie posters. Two details that caught Sands’ eye were an alcove with two cots and what looked like a stocked snack bar.
Sands took all this in with a glance, and dismissed it. His attention was focused instead on the Drones. There were five of them—four males and, to Sands’ surprise, one female. Like Ahmer, they were all kids, the oldest no more than twenty. And also like him, they were all terrified. Sands knew instantly that it had been Ahmer’s idea to bring him there, and that it was only out of desperation that the others had agreed. If Ahmer had sold Sands as their potential savior, his comrades weren’t yet ready to buy into him as more than a proven threat. They stood back from the hatch in a semi-circle, fear in their eyes and weapons in hand. But not real weapons. Just whatever they had been able to scrounge—kitchen knives, a hammer, a table leg.
The biggest of them—a scowling, buzz-cut blond who looked like he might have been familiar with the inside of a gym—sized up the situation and gaped at Ahmer in anger.
“Jesus, Ahmer, you said you were bringing one!”
Ahmer cut his eyes at Sands but said nothing.
“We’re a package deal,” Sands said. Without taking his eyes off the big kid, he kicked a pile of junk out of a nearby chair and deposited Victoria. She was still out of it, but Sands was encouraged to see one hand reach up to scratch her nose. Rashid got his attention and pointed out a basket on the snack bar just within arm’s reach. Sands nodded. Rashid snatched up two apples, handed one to Sands. They devoured the fresh fruit unselfconsciously as the Drones looked on.
“I think we should put the big one in restraints.”
Like two deck guns, Sands’ eyes swiveled slowly toward a slight young man with a Southeast Asian accent.
“Did you just say that out loud?”
The hammer in the young man’s hands, held upright like a cross before a vampire, wilted under Sands’ gaze. Sands looked at the fellow next to him—an Indian kid, if Sands were to guess. He held a thin kitchen knife in one hand like a baton, shaking so badly he could have been conducting Flight of the Bumblebee.
“Put down the steak knife, sonny. All of you. Put the toys down now and nobody gets hurt.”
A tall African kid in high-water pants that revealed mismatched socks spoke up. “We know who you are.”
“Then you know I’m not kidding.”
The blond buzz-cut stepped forward and thrust a crackling stun gun in Sands’ face.
“I don’t care how badass you are, I’ve got a stun gun!”
In a move shocking in its suddenness and speed, Sands disarmed the young man, sending him to the deck, where he clutched his arm and howled in pain.
Sands held up the weapon. “No, I’ve got a stun gun. You’ve got a fractured wrist.” To add insult to literal injury, Sands hadn’t even dropped his apple. He took one last bite and tossed the core aside.
Everyone dropped their weapons. The Indian kid raised his hands, and the others followed suit.
“Jesus, this ain’t a western. Put your hands down and pick that shit up and put it away.” Sands turned to Rashid and gestured toward the kid on the deck, still holding his arm. “Take care of him, Doc.”
Rashid shook his head, disapproving of Sands’ methods, but obeying his order. As he examined the kid’s arm, the young woman opened a locker. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
Everyone else picked up their “weapons” and put them back where they belonged. Sands noticed that Ahmer picked up the apple core from where Sands had tossed it and placed it in the waste bin. He told him, “Introduce me to your friends.”
Ahmer did so. There was Bao, a spiky-haired go-getter from Shanghai with a brash smile. Desmond was the tall African, from Zambia, whose mismatched hand-me-downs clashed with his perfect, Oxford-accented English. Hari, from Mumbai, was a dyed-in-the-wool nerd whose play for cool points took the form of garish, high-top sneakers he wore in the “American style” with the laces undone. Then there was Ulani—“Lani for short”—a navy brat from Guam with a streak of magenta in her long, black hair.
“And that’s Oleg,” Ahmer finished, pointing at the big Slavic kid with the now-bandaged wrist, whose blond buzz-cut and leather combat boots gave off a definite skinhead vibe.
They were a colorful, proudly geeky lot. With better clothes they might have been the multinational ideal of some Silicon Valley megacorporation, the cream of t
he crop from the world’s elite technical universities, reinventing the digital landscape between rounds of company-sanctioned ping-pong and proprietary-blend smoothies. But these kids would never see the inside of a digital startup, never get closer to a venture capitalist than stitching their designer clothes in some third-world sweatshop, like their less fortunate siblings or cousins. The Drones had avoided that fate through their intellect and technical skill, but their impoverished backgrounds left them easily exploitable, perfect candidates for the extra-legal prison-for-profit scheme represented by Inferno.
Sands asked no questions and showed no interest in the information each volunteered. If he wanted to know more—which he was pretty sure he didn’t—he knew he would do better to talk to each of them individually. For now, knowing their names just made it easier to tell them what to do.
“I’m Sands,” he said. “That’s Rashid, and that’s Victoria. So now we’re all friends. What’s the situation?”
-8-
All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.
—George Orwell
“The evacuation begin this morning,” Ahmer began, in his haphazard English. “First the Warden and staff. Then crew, then merc guards and Marines.”
“So there’s nobody else left?” Sands didn’t want to leave any room for error.
“Just us. And the inmates.”
“The Marines said they’d send the copter back for us,” Bao added. “But Oleg overheard them laughing about it.”
Sands turned to Oleg, who was sitting in one of the console chairs now, glumly nursing his wrist. “Is that right? You sure that’s what they were laughing about?”
“Yeah,” Oleg sneered. “They said we weren’t worth the fuel to come back for us.”
“Anyway, the laugh is on them,” Bao said. “The shockwave hit when they were taking off.”
“Yeah, I saw the wreckage. Hilarious. So whatever’s going on, they had a heads-up. Any ideas on that?”
Inferno 2033 Book Two: Perdition Page 4
