Imulah, who had followed them across the roof, translated to Moreto, who put the bird on her shoulder.
She spoke rapidly and then blew into the necklace again.
Imulah looked over to Magnolia, eyes wide. “She says her soldiers are already here.”
Footfalls sounded across the deck as people left their seats and milled about. X drew his sword and walked over.
“What the fuck is she talking about?” he asked.
“Horn,” Imulah continued. “El Pulpo’s bastard has come to the islands.”
Moreto spoke again and then brought up her whistle.
“Her bastard,” Imulah corrected.
“Somebody, shoot her!” Magnolia yelled.
Several soldiers aimed their rifles, but X held up his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “I don’t—”
An explosion tore into the Hive, rattling the entire airship and knocking Magnolia to the deck, beside X.
Screaming chaos sounded in all directions.
Another blast hit a machine-gun nest, erasing the two militia soldiers aiming their rifles at Moreto.
Magnolia pushed herself up and ran. Three strides later, a third impact knocked her down again. Then the realization struck her.
Moreto had requested to leave the capitol tower and fight on the Hive instead of the Sky Arena, to draw the king and his soldiers into the open.
Magnolia got up and bolted after Moreto as gunfire hit positions around the north side of the airship. Another militia soldier dropped to the deck, his head blown open by a high-caliber round.
Moreto was running right for the machine-gun nest now.
She’s going to freaking jump.
“No you don’t, you fucking bitch,” Magnolia growled.
Machine-gun fire rang out from the other weapon turrets. Judging from the muzzle angles, they were aiming at boats.
But how had Horn and his men gotten past security?
She considered throwing her dagger at Moreto to stop her, but the woman was already too far away. When she got to the machine-gun nest, she kept running, right over the edge.
More explosions rocked the airship. The skinwalkers’ bullets were hammering the machine-gun nests across the northern edge of the rooftop.
Magnolia hunched down in the nest where Moreto had leaped, just as tracer rounds nearly took off her head. On all fours, Magnolia climbed over the two dead militia soldiers. Her hands slopped into the blood pooling around their mangled corpses.
One of the men grabbed her.
“Help me,” he mumbled, gripping a spurting wound.
Another blast went off behind her as a second machine-gun nest vanished in smoke. Most of the sky people had retreated toward the elevator, but they couldn’t all go down at once.
She spotted Michael and Layla waiting to get on behind Cole and Bernie. Rodger was running toward her with a rifle.
When Magnolia turned back to the injured soldier, his eyes had closed in shock.
“Rodge, help me!” she yelled.
He climbed into the nest and pressed on the man’s belly while Magnolia risked a glance over the sandbags.
Another flurry of rounds forced her down. The spray then chopped into the machine-gun position to her right, blowing one of the soldiers backward in a spray of red mist.
She picked up a dropped assault rifle and moved closer to the edge for a better look.
“Mags, be careful!” Rodger shouted.
Now she saw why the militia hadn’t detected the skinwalkers’ vessels.
Three hundred yards out, a submarine had surfaced.
Another shell exploded behind her, followed by a chorus of screams. Ducking, she turned. A projectile had hit the elevator cage. It had been packed with people frantic to get off the rig.
Twisted metal and smoldering bodies lay strewn under a pall of smoke.
“Mom! Dad!” Rodger shouted.
A force suddenly slammed into Magnolia, knocking her backward. She managed to bring up her hand to shield her face as a scorching wall of fire washed over her and Rodger.
FIFTEEN
“Layla!” Michael screamed.
His voice sounded faint. Everything did. Dense smoke filled his lungs and burned his eyes, blocking his view of the carnage. Coughing and retching, he crawled across the deck, searching frantically for his best friend and mother of his unborn child.
Hot, twisted metal stung his hand. He reached out for Layla. How could she just be gone?
His mind filled with morbid thoughts, and he pushed them away. He wiped away blood that had dripped into his eye. More seeped down the back of his head, but he ignored the injury.
All that mattered was finding Layla.
He shouted her name again, then broke into another deep, guttural cough. The strain sent spots swarming in his vision.
He moved on his knees, feeling with his hands. The robotic fingers hit something, and he reached over with his real hand to check a body wet to the touch. Warm, slick blood dripped off his fingers.
The smoke cleared enough to reveal the body of a Cazador scribe. Imulah was a few feet away, sprawled on his back but breathing. He rolled over and coughed violently, drooling blood.
As the smoke dissipated, Michael saw more bodies.
Closest were a male and female, both blown down in the blast. Somehow, they were still holding hands. The woman was facing him, sort of. He couldn’t tell who she was, because a hunk of shrapnel stuck out where her nose should be. Then he saw the clock tattoo on the arm of the man holding her dead hand.
“No,” Michael choked.
The bodies were Bernie and Cole Mintel. He was checking Cole for a pulse when movement came through the wall of swirling black.
Militia soldiers swarmed the roof to help the wounded. Sergeant Wynn helped Michael to his feet. He said something, but Michael still couldn’t hear much.
“Layla!” he shouted. “Have to find Layla! Have you seen Layla?”
Wynn shook his head, and Michael pushed away from him to search the crowd of wounded staggering away from the debris field.
“layla!” Michael yelled.
He turned in all directions, disoriented from the smoke that still swirled around the blast zone.
How could he have lost her when she had been right by his side at the elevator cage?
Medics and civilians rushed by him to render aid. His heart hammered as if it were trying to break free. He turned in a full circle, stopping at the sight of a woman with her arm around a militia soldier.
Seeing her short hair, he staggered toward the thickest part of the smoke, screaming, “Layla!”
And then he saw her, standing on the deck, a hand on her stomach, blood streaking down her chin.
Layla sobbed, her lips quivering.
He ran over and wrapped her in his arms. They embraced, both of them coughing as they tried to speak.
Still half dazed, Michael guided her away from the twisted metal and body parts. He heard faint screams and, over them, more distant gunfire and an explosion, then another noise. It sounded like the blast of thrusters.
He looked to the sky as Discovery pulled away from the capitol tower, rising into the clouds. Two missiles streaked after it, but there were no blasts to indicate it had been hit.
Michael led Layla to the gardens, not stopping until they were free of the smoke. Several injured people sat with their backs against the square-sided planters while medics worked on them.
“Here,” Michael said. He got her to sit on a bench and then bent down to look her over. Tears rolled down her ashen face, and blood trickled from a gash on her chin.
“Are you okay?” he asked her. “Does anything hurt?”
He couldn’t hear her answer, but she shook her head. To which question, though?
She arc
hed her back, wincing.
“You fell on your back?”
A nod.
Better, maybe, than falling on her belly.
“Tin! Layla!” said a voice that Michael could actually hear.
He turned toward the scene of chaos. A phalanx of militia soldiers shielded the king.
Ton and Victor led the escort over to the gardens, holding metal shields in a defensive position.
“We have to get off the roof,” X said.
Victor pointed and led the way.
Michael took Layla’s hand and followed through the extensive gardens. There were no cages to take them down to the lower decks—just ladders. He didn’t like the idea of her climbing down, but they had no choice if they wanted to get off the rooftop.
Victor waved the group toward the two exit ladders. On the right ladder, more medics and civilians worked to lower the incapacitated, while any injured who could walk used the other. Imulah and another scribe were being helped onto the rungs.
A dull ringing lingered in Michael’s ears, but by the time Victor made it to the back of the line, he was hearing better.
“We have to get the king down!” someone yelled. “The submarine went under, and no telling when it’ll come back.”
“Get the others down first!” X shouted.
Submarine . . . With Layla’s hand in his, Michael cautiously approached the ladders. He stopped a few feet back to look at the water but didn’t see any enemy craft.
The small line inched forward as more people climbed down to the lower levels.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michael asked Layla yet again.
“I . . . I think so,” she said. “Bernie and Cole . . . They took most of the blast, I think. They knocked me down during the explosion.”
Michael closed his eyes, but it didn’t block out the image.
“I’m worried they’re hurt bad,” Layla said.
Michael didn’t reply.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” X said to Layla.
Michael took her to the ladder, and she started down, looking up at him and X. It was a long way to the platform below, and several people, including Imulah and another scribe, were below her on the ladder.
Fencing had fallen away and hung loosely over the rooftop to her left. Smoke rose from several levels below, and flames licked at the hull on her right.
A boat with a water cannon was spraying the flames.
A voice came from behind them. Sergeant Wynn, radio handset in hand, tried to catch his breath.
“The skinwalkers have at least three submarines,” he gasped. “That’s . . . that’s how they got past our defenses.”
“I hope to God Discovery got away,” Michael said. “It’s our only hope to take out those subs.”
“Get Captain Mitchells on the radio,” X said. “And, Michael, get your ass down there.”
With each rung, Michael tried to manage his breathing, but the attack had rattled him. Bernie was dead, and probably Cole, too. The Hive had taken severe damage, and who knew how many civilians and militia soldiers had died.
Layla was halfway down the ladder when voices rang out from the balconies rimming the hull. Militia soldiers had started an evacuation, and civilians had come out of their apartments with their belongings stuffed into bags.
One of the soldiers shouldered a rifle and aimed it at the water.
Michael looked to the surface just as a small submarine surfaced like some massive sea creature. Water dripped off the conning tower. A hatch popped open, and a man emerged wearing armor that looked like bone. He raised a long machine gun.
“Shoot him!” Michael shouted.
The militia soldier on the balcony opened fire, rounds pinging off the sub. Another hatch opened near the stern, and two skinwalkers popped up with rifles.
“Keep moving!” Michael yelled to the scribes who had stopped below Layla.
Several bullets hit the militia guard on the balcony, and he crumpled against the railing, dropping his rifle to the deck.
Layla pushed down below Michael as the skinwalker locked the large machine gun into a turret mount and fed it with a belt of ammo.
“Move it!” Michael yelled.
Layla glanced up at him, their gaze meeting. He flinched at the bark of machine-gun fire.
He looked over his shoulder again, watching in horror as the rounds picked away the people below him and Layla.
Michael unholstered the handgun X had given him. Squinting, he aimed at the shooter. Even from here, he could see the man laughing as he raked the barrel back and forth.
Bullets punched gaping holes in the airship’s hull. The scribe below Imulah jumped to avoid the gunfire. He hit the bottom deck, cartwheeling off it and splashing into the water.
Michael knew that the odds of hitting the shooter from this distance were slim, but he had to try. He locked his feet against the ladder, gripped the side with his robotic hand, and lined up the sights.
The tracers rose toward Imulah and Layla.
Over the crack of gunfire, another noise, like a loud whistle, sounded as he pulled the trigger. The submarine vanished in an explosion that sent shrapnel flying.
Michael holstered the gun as another whistle sounded. This time, he saw the missile from the clouds streak down on the far side of the airship, slamming into a target there.
Layla gripped the ladder, staring up at him with frightened eyes.
“It’s okay,” Michael mouthed. “I love you.”
Smoldering pieces of metal plate and skinwalkers rained down over the water as the submarine sank to the depths. Michael searched the water for more hostiles, but it seemed they were in the clear. Discovery had saved them for now.
Two tugboats with water cannons raced to the rig to help put out the fires. Hoses shot water across the hull of the Hive, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough to save their ancient home. Most of the blasts had come from the opposite side of the ship, which told Michael the damage would be even worse there.
Distant gunfire and another missile from the sky confirmed the battle was far from over.
But how many men did Horn have? From what Michael understood, he had slaughtered half the crew on Raven’s Claw. And where had they found submarines?
Imulah finally got down to the bottom platform, where more medics were waiting. He reached up to help Layla down, and Michael hopped down onto the deck beside them. Dr. Huff had arrived on a speedboat.
“I need tables set up there and there!” Huff yelled.
“No, not here!” a voice called out above Michael.
X jumped off the ladder.
“We need to get all nonemergency personnel and militia off this rig—especially the wounded,” he said. “Everyone not fighting the fires or holding security needs to fall back to the capitol tower.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” Wynn said. He got off the ladder and hurried over with his handset.
“Why?” X asked. “It’s the most defensive place we got.”
Wynn swallowed hard. “Sir, listen to this.”
He turned up the radio to white noise and the screams of terrified people.
He stepped closer, his heart climbing in his throat as he picked up something else amid the din.
“What?” X said. “What am I listening to?”
X grabbed the radio and brought it to his ear, his eyes widening as he listened for several moments.
“I don’t understand,” Layla said. “How is that possible?”
“The skinwalkers must have brought them,” Wynn said.
“Get me a boat now!” X said.
Wynn gave the orders, and X grabbed him before he could walk away. “Where the hell is Lieutenant Sloan?”
“Sir, I’m not sure,” Wynn replied.
“F
ind out.”
X looked up at the ladders across the hull. Michael did the same thing. A hundred people were abandoning their homes as rescue workers fought to save it.
“Deploy every able man and woman to the capitol tower,” X said. “We’re not letting it fall to the monsters.”
“Roger that, sir,” Wynn said.
“And tell Les and Timothy to keep eyes out for more subs.”
He looked to Michael and Layla. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I need Michael’s help.”
Layla nodded and squeezed Michael’s hand. “Go, Tin,” she said. “Save the capitol.”
* * * * *
Ada opened her eyes to a world so black, she thought she was dead until she heard the boom of thunder.
She tried to move, but something weighed her down. Mustering all her energy, she squirmed just a little in what felt like dirt.
A breath of air through her nostrils carried the scent of wet earth. She remembered the smell from the farms on the Hive, where she had helped her aunt pick produce when she was just a girl.
But this smell was different.
Ada twisted again, freeing one shoulder. She managed to get that arm out and reached up to wipe her visor. She cleared enough sand off it to see lightning flash on the horizon.
With her free hand, she pushed off the sand that half buried her body. Memories of the storm crashed over her like the last wave to hit her boat.
Sitting up, she reached to turn on her helmet lamp, but it was gone. Her wrist monitor still worked, providing a small glow. Radiation levels were low, and the air showed no signs of sulfur dioxide or other noxious gases. That also explained how she was breathing with a depleted air filter and a cracked visor. A little over a day had passed, which explained her growling stomach and parched throat.
The relief she felt over finding herself alive vanished when a skein of lightning illuminated the beach. Her boat was nowhere in sight.
She pushed herself up to start the search.
As she shambled along, her broken toe throbbed, but her eyes adjusted to the faint blue glow of the sky.
Waves crashed, churning up blocks of white foam that piled up on the sand.
A few minutes later, she stopped to get her bearings and realized she had lost more than her boat and headlamp. She had nothing to defend herself with.
Warriors Page 19
