Warriors

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

Tears rolled down his ashen face, and blood soiled his outfit. He reached out to her with a bandaged hand, and she took it, choking up as she recalled what had happened.

  Magnolia closed her eyes, trying to stop the painful images, but the militia soldier who had died in her arms lingered. Then came the explosion of the cage, where civilians had clustered to escape the violence.

  Rodger gripped her hand a little tighter, as if he could sense her mental anguish.

  All around them were injured sky people and Cazadores. Imulah was in the bow, being treated by a medical worker in gray coveralls.

  Dr. Huff checked a militia soldier with his back to the hull. He was in bad shape, with blood streaking down his black armor.

  Huff made his way over to Magnolia and bent down. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and gently held her chin, rotating her head to the left to check her bandage.

  His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Rodger said something that she couldn’t hear, either.

  Had she lost her hearing completely?

  She reached up again to feel the bandage that was wrapped around her head. Maybe it was blocking out the sound.

  But that was unlikely.

  She could feel fluid in her ears—not a good sign. Huff checked her chest armor, and glancing down, she saw why. A hunk of shrapnel stuck out just above her heart.

  The doctor bent down for a better look, and Magnolia tried to read his lips.

  “No blood,” he seemed to say. Then something about armor, and luck.

  He patted her on the shoulder, forced a smile, and nodded at Rodger before moving on to another patient.

  Rodger scooted closer, his eyes glazed with tears.

  It’s okay, she mouthed. I’ll be okay.

  She was more concerned about Discovery. If the airship went down, there went their best hope of defending the islands.

  Scanning the sky, she searched for the airship but saw nothing.

  The boat slowed, and several people got up in the bow. A militia soldier hopped onto a pier and pulled the craft over by its mooring line.

  Rodger helped Magnolia up, and the slow exodus began. Some of the injured could make it onto the platform unaided; others were carried. Once on the deck, the worst of the injured were put on stretchers and carried toward the doors.

  She put her arm around Rodger and walked toward more medical staff, civilians, and even merchants who had come to help.

  Then she saw the armored Cazadores across the piers. She halted in midstride and pulled Rodger back when she saw a stack of Siren carcasses.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  She pulled back, but Rodger held on to her.

  It’s okay, he mouthed.

  But how could it be okay? There were dead monsters on the docks, which meant the Sirens had somehow . . .

  Then it hit her. Moreto hadn’t orchestrated just the attack with the submarines. In the ambush, the skinwalkers had unleashed the monsters.

  The cage from the rooftop descended to the docks. To the right, a side door to the marina flung open. More Cazador soldiers poured out.

  Colonel Forge was one of them, holding a cutlass covered in blood. Mac and Felipe followed him out. They all glanced up at the cage, and Magnolia spotted Michael, Victor, X, and Sergeant Wynn inside.

  The elevator finally clanked to the deck, and the men joined Forge. They formed a group and started off for the docks to her left, passing the injured and those helping them.

  They hurried toward a dock where Magnolia spotted an armored Cazador speedboat that she had never seen before. The hull sported a black octopus logo. It had to be Colonel Forge’s personal war boat.

  Farther off, Shadow, his newly assigned warship, was also sailing, with a small fleet of boats on patrol. Most of them were coming from the direction of the Hive.

  She brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare.

  Smoke rose away from the Hive.

  “Come on!” said a faint voice.

  It took her a moment to realize that some of her hearing had returned.

  The voice grew louder. “Mags, come on, we have to go,” said Rodger.

  She started walking, and he helped her into the long line of injured heading inside.

  Another group of people went the opposite direction on the pier, but they weren’t militia or Cazador soldiers. Hell Divers Arlo and Edgar, in their armor and armed with assault rifles, ran past her without even stopping.

  Rodger pulled on her when she turned and raised a hand.

  “Wait,” she slurred.

  “Mags, we have to get you to the medical ward,” Rodger insisted. “Please . . .”

  “Magnolia!” shouted a raspy male voice.

  X had spotted her and Rodger. He ran over, panting, looking them both up and down.

  “God damn, it’s good to see you two,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” she said. “You?”

  A diagonal gash across his chest leaked blood. He held the captain’s sword in his left hand and used his bandaged stump to wipe sweat and blood from his face.

  “I’m fine and heading out to patrol,” X said. “You two get inside. It’s safe now. We’ve cleared the building of the beasts.”

  Wynn stepped up beside X. “Have you seen Lieutenant Sloan yet?” he asked.

  “No,” Magnolia said. “Last time I saw her was on the rooftop, at the start of the duel.”

  The ringing in her ears blocked out X’s cursing. She winced.

  Rodger tried to keep her walking by gently taking her arm, but again she resisted. The soldiers and Hell Divers were boarding the boats, and she wanted to go with them.

  She wanted to fight. To find Moreto and get the satisfaction that had evaded her on the roof.

  “Please,” Rodger said.

  “Get inside,” X said. He patted her on the arm and then ran with his team to the docks. Another armored boat came out from the covered marina. She recognized that throaty rumble—the boat where el Pulpo had strapped her and Sofia next to the exhaust stacks.

  “Where is Sofia?” she asked Rodger.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but we have to go. Your wounds need to be treated before you get an infection. I can’t lose you like I lost . . .”

  The ringing came again, silencing Rodger. The right side of her head pounded. Fighting the agony, she mouthed, lost who?

  Rodger wiped a tear and spoke again, but she still couldn’t hear him.

  Magnolia put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer.

  Who? she mouthed.

  It was hard to make out the response of his quivering lips, but he seemed to be trying to say, My mom and my dad.

  EIGHTEEN

  The armored war boat bobbed in the water somewhere in the center of the Vanguard Islands. In the stern Michael threw on a chute and booster pack. They were old, pulled from storage in the armory, but it was all they had. Everything else was on Discovery, wherever that was . . .

  They had lost contact with the airship after a rocket from the surface exploded against its hull. Details were still coming in, and Michael still wasn’t sure whether the militia had captured the skinwalker who fired the rocket.

  At least a dozen vessels surrounded the war boat. Militia soldiers and Colonel Forge’s forces stood on the decks, their weapons angled at the water, searching for submarines.

  The only people looking up were Hell Divers. Ted, Hector, Alberto, and Lena waited in a boat across from Michael. Arlo and Edgar were on another craft, in armor and ready for orders, despite their still healing injuries.

  They weren’t the only ones hurt. Michael had a gash across his forehead and another on the back of his head. But the sting and trickle of blood was just a nuisance. All that mattered was that Layla had safely evacuated to the capitol tow
er, where she was now protected.

  A runabout, commanded by Sergeant Wynn, chuffed closer to the war boat. A Hell Diver standing on the bow took off her helmet. It was Sofia.

  “Did you find the skinwalkers who fired the missile?” X growled.

  “Yes, sir, we have them in our custody,” Wynn replied. “We’re doing our best to search for any remaining hostiles with the resources we have left.”

  Have left . . . The devastating ambush had killed far more people than he imagined. And with Discovery’s fate unknown, the future of the Vanguard Islands was never more uncertain.

  “What about Discovery?” he asked.

  “We still have no idea where she is,” Wynn said, “but we do know their radio was damaged in the attack. Good news is, we haven’t seen her come crashing down anywhere.”

  X put his fingers in his mouth and whistled to the other vessels.

  “Listen up, Hell Divers!” he shouted. “We’re sending you all up into the sky with your boosters to see if you can locate Discovery.”

  Michael scanned the sky. Chances were good the ship was just above the cloud cover, and with the flares, he could get Captain Mitchells’s attention.

  “Spread out and find her!” X yelled.

  Motors fired, and the boats chugged away, fanning out to give Edgar, Arlo, Sofia, and several of the greenhorns the best chance of finding the airship.

  Michael prepared to put on his helmet, but X stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “I told you a war was coming,” X said quietly. “This is it, and we just lost the first battle.”

  “We can still win this.”

  X waited a second before nodding. “I fear there are more skinwalkers lurking on the rigs, so be careful once you get in the air. If your balloon is popped, you know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  X looked out over the water as the other boats pulled away.

  “Once you find Discovery, make sure none of the green divers give away its position. If you manage to board, have Les put down under cover of darkness, at these coordinates.”

  X handed Michael a torn piece of shirt with numbers scribbled on it. They meant nothing to him at first glance, but Timothy would be able to determine the location.

  Michael slipped the sliver of torn shirt into his vest pocket. Then he secured his helmet. X pulled him close, pressing his head against Michael’s visor.

  “Be careful, kid,” X said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “We don’t know if there are more threats out there.”

  “I will.”

  Michael made his way up to the bow, next to one of the mounted machine guns. On the other boats, Hell Divers had already punched their boosters and were ballooning skyward.

  Reaching over his back, Michael fired his canister, and a balloon shot out, filling with helium that swung him up off the armored deck. He watched the sparkling water below, and the war boat bobbing on light chop.

  X raised his left hand, and Michael waved back.

  Then he turned his attention to the other rigs, scanning the devastation. Smoke rose off the Hive, but the fires appeared to be out. Many boats that had helped fight the flames were now on their way to the rig where the remaining oil tanker had exploded.

  Thick plumes of smoke followed the Hell Divers. Michael steadied his breathing. The slow ascent made him and the other divers easy targets for any skinwalker waiting to strike.

  Even with the militia, Colonel Forge’s troops, and the Barracudas holding security, it would take a single shot to deflate the balloon of a helpless diver. At a thousand feet, they would have little time to pull their chutes.

  Michael looked up at the clouds, trying not to think about the threats that could still be on the surface. All around him, the other divers rose toward the ceiling of bulging cottony clouds.

  The cover had likely saved Discovery from destruction. On a clear day, the skinwalkers would have had an easy target.

  Arlo and Edgar were almost to the cloud cover. If someone was going to shoot them, they would have done so already, and chances were good they all were out of range by now.

  One by one, the clouds absorbed the other divers. Michael was the last to enter the translucent haze. The higher he rose, the thicker it became, until he couldn’t see anything.

  He kept his body relaxed in the harness connected to the helium balloon. The minutes ticked by with the altitude. The divers were safe from enemy bullets and rockets, but it was still an agonizingly slow climb. On the way back to the airship, it always was.

  Normally, Michael used the downtime to calm his mind after an adrenaline-­fueled dive and surface run. Today was no different.

  The rush of adrenaline had slowed to a trickle, but he still didn’t know who had perished in the ambush—only that several important people were missing, including Lieutenant Sloan.

  He had a bad feeling that she had died in the initial explosions and fallen into the ocean. If that were the case, they would never find her body.

  And he still didn’t know whether Layla and Bray had been harmed when she fell. He wanted to be down there with them now, but duty called.

  He cursed the gnawing guilt. Layla deserved so much more than this. She deserved a husband, and Bray deserved a good father.

  Michael wanted more than anything to be both. But how could he do that when a war was coming? The war that X had warned him of before he even left for Rio de Janeiro.

  He had promised Layla that he would back off after saving the people from the bunker there. But the attack by the skinwalkers, and unknown location of the defectors reminded him they would never be safe until both threats were destroyed.

  Captain Mitchells was correct. Until the islands were safe, they couldn’t rest.

  Fighting and diving were in his blood, right down to the marrow of his bones. Michael was a Hell Diver, and he wouldn’t stop jumping until his family could live in peace.

  At eight thousand feet, the cloud cover began to lighten. When he finally broke through, the sun’s glare dazzled him.

  Using his wrist computer, Michael brought up the sunshield on his visor. The tint eased the glare, but it took several moments for his eyes to adjust. Even then the green halo made it difficult to see.

  He twisted in his harness for a view to the west. He spotted the balloon carrying Edgar, but no Discovery.

  He turned to the south. Nothing there but Sofia and Hector.

  Smoke drifted east of him—the same direction as the destroyed oil tanker and the rig the fire had consumed. But they were at almost fifteen thousand feet now. The smoke from a surface fire couldn’t be that thick, not even from a burning tanker. Then he saw the source of the smoke.

  A horizontal trail curved to the northeast—a dark plume in Discovery’s wake. It reminded him of the dark, greasy exhaust from the motorcycle he had ridden in Florida.

  Arlo was the closest diver. He fired a flare that burst into a dazzling display of red sparks. The airship moved slowly, using only turbofans, no thrusters.

  Michael had a feeling the newly repaired thrusters had been destroyed, but he couldn’t see through the billowing smoke from the stern.

  The balloon pulled him higher, and to avoid climbing too high, he let some of the helium escape. The other divers would be doing the same thing, waiting for Les to spot them and scoop them up.

  The wait was even more agonizing than the climb, and Michael feared that Les had been injured or killed in the explosion.

  It would take time for all the divers to get aboard. Judging from the sheer volume of smoke, he marveled that Discovery was still in the sky.

  Arlo fired a second flare, and this time someone on the airship saw it.

  A bank of thrusters fired, booming in the distance.

  Relief washed over Michael. It lasted for a second or two—until he realized tha
t it wasn’t the stern that had been hit.

  The snaking trail of smoke dissipated as the airship maneuvered toward Arlo. The new angle provided a different view.

  Michael saw then why no one on the bridge had seen them right away. An entire section of the bow was gone, exposing the bridge, or what remained of it. Michael pulled out the binoculars and hesitated an instant, afraid to look.

  Smoke wafted from a gaping hole on the bow. Twisted metal and jagged Plexiglas were all that remained in the main impact area that had punched through the outer and inner hull.

  White ash coated the aluminum framework, making it look like mangled bones. One light still shone on the bridge, spreading a white glow over the shambles.

  The interior deck and several of the stations had survived the blast, but the captain’s chair was empty.

  Michael zoomed in with the binos but didn’t see Les, Eevi, or any of the crew who had boarded. But then something moved with the white light.

  It was Timothy. The AI walked in front of the vacant captain’s chair, hands clasped behind him, looking out through the new window in the hull. He stood there stoically, watching the divers as the ship lowered to pick them up.

  * * * * *

  Moonlight streamed through the open hatches of the council chamber. X sat on his throne, looking down at Miles, who had a fresh bandage on his back. Like his dog, X also had a new bandage, covering where a Siren had raked his chest.

  The nanotech gel had helped his arm heal, and pain medicine was keeping him functioning, but he was starting to feel the effects of fatigue and his injuries.

  Ton and Victor stood at the bottom of the stairs, spears in hand. They, too, had bandages over fresh wounds, but that didn’t hinder them from standing straight and guarding their king.

  Rhino would have done the same thing. X missed the big man now more than ever. Seeing the boat with the burning corpse had probably fueled him in the fight against the Sirens. They had won the day, but it sure didn’t feel like a victory.

  Guilt gnawed at his stomach while he sat waiting to learn whether the Vanguard Islands were secure. For now, it seemed the battle was over, but he wanted confirmation. It was too dangerous to send messages over the radio, but according to his scouts, Discovery had landed at the secret location—a place that no skinwalker would think to go.