It was 17 March. Celebrations had sparked to life all over the city. We could hear it in the corridors. The Commerce Module was one massive party. Music blared from the pubs and restaurants. Laughter and cheers echoed wherever we went. Everyone was wearing green. I was sure that divers outside the modules could hear the celebrations.
We were wearing green too, to fit in, and we explored the city to see the festivities. There was a parade at noon. It wound its way through the Living Modules, where it picked up participants—anyone who wanted to join—and it snaked its way through the travel tubes and corridors and went through the central module and toward the university, where an even larger celebration was taking place. Families with children were participating; the youngsters wore green hats and green shirts and beads and had noisemakers and trumpets—anything to signify a celebration.
Everyone was drinking, yelling, cheering. A few fights broke out here and there, but people generally stopped them from getting too bad.
Life underwater was hard, in every colony. A struggle. It was nice to blow off steam once in a while. Citizens everywhere enjoyed events like this, and I smiled as I watched. It was common to see hardworking people enjoy a small break from the rigors of everyday life.
Sahar started the parade with an announcement about celebrating cultures and embracing each other’s heritage. It was a nice speech, and she had a huge smile on her face. She wore an emerald green hijab that sparkled in the light, and a traditional blue scarf to signify St. Patrick. Her eye makeup had a green tinge as well. The people loved her; all the children of the city, wearing green costume jewels and clothing, practically swarmed her along the parade route, which made her smile widen even more. It was an incredible scene: a Muslim woman in a green hijab leading an Irish parade through an underwater city.
We walked the parade with Sahar, who led the line with the other city councillors, and as the time grew close to dark, we drifted away toward SC-1 to prepare for the moment.
We changed into our gear and prepped for the mission. We inserted receivers in our ears and attached throat mics concealed under collars. We carried guns in holsters on our right thighs, as was customary in the BSF, and knives in sheaths on our left thighs, which was traditional for almost all undersea fleet sailors.
I found Renée in the seating area, and she put her arms around me. She always worried about me just before missions.
“Did you find your PCD?” I muttered as I nuzzled her neck.
“Pardon?”
“You said you lost it.”
Realization spread across her face. “It was in Sahar’s office the whole time. I just misplaced it.”
“Ah.”
“Please be careful,” she whispered into my ear.
“Always.” I held her tight, but not for long.
—••—
Richard and I marched confidently to the travel tube just outside Research Module A. We were wearing dark blue BSF uniforms. Commodore Clarke met us there. I checked the time and Clarke glanced at me.
Renée piloted SC-1 outside, where she parked near the city and waited. Sahar, Cliff, Meg, and Alyssna were on board with her.
“It’ll be a skeleton crew now,” he muttered. “Everyone else is out celebrating.”
I nodded.
Time to go.
—••—
We marched toward the labs. Clarke barked at the person at the desk—not one of his people—who seemed resigned to the visit and preoccupied with his own issues. He clearly did not want to be on duty just then. Clarke signed the log and within seconds we were in. A hatch with a large BSFRL logo split down the center and sighed open.
It caught my eye. Only for an instant though, because there were more important things to do, but it was more than a sub fleet logo. There was something else on it about an “Imperial Force.”
No such thing existed in the BSF.
That being said, there were obviously troops in the city representing it, and the guard who had taken Johnny had said something similar that had piqued my interest.
The labs were well-lit. The decks were steel, as in all other places, though there were no grates here. No spaces for water to drip down, which was more common in other colonies. Here it was plain steel and easier to clean, I assumed. There was equipment piled along the deck outside of hatches and labs. It was empty . . . there was no one around. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had worried that not everyone would leave for the party, but Sahar had been correct. The majority of the city was celebrating. The few guards in the labs were located at their stations, which we would avoid. We knew where they were because Sahar had already provided the map. I recognized the layout of the corridors; I just didn’t know what each lab or office was used for.
Clarke intended to speak with Johnny, under the pretense of freeing him, which justified his presence.
Richard and I would take care of the rest.
Richard was in a Lieutenant’s uniform. He looked official; his facial expression was serious, though it was likely to contain his nerves. He knew not to speak, for he could not emulate the accent.
My own uniform had Captain’s insignia on the shoulders.
We split from Clarke with a glance. “Good luck,” he mouthed. He was going to distract as many guards as possible. In fact, Johnny’s detention had given us an added distraction for the theft.
There were signs on the walls and arrows on the deck. The lift was in the center of the lab, and we found it easily. We stepped on it and I pressed the button for the first level. A gate lowered, there was a thrum of power, and it started to descend. It was hydraulic and wide, meant for large equipment.
It stopped, the gate raised, and I peered at the area surrounding us.
The moonpool.
—••—
The large deck hatch was closed, however, which Sahar had warned us of. We’d need to open it and expose the water below the module to bring the device in. I found the panel on the bulkhead and studied it.
I swore.
Richard was looking around. There was scuba gear piled against the bulkheads, as well as lockers. There were workstations for sailors and an office with a transparent partition. It was likely the guard station, but it was empty.
“Can you do it?” he asked me in a quiet voice.
There was a pressure readout on the display as well. It read 4.0. I said, “No.”
“Can’t hotwire it?”
I stared at the pad. It required a palm print to open the moonpool hatch. There was also a code to enter, but it was eight digits long. “Can you check the guard station? There might be a hatch override there.”
Richard investigated and returned in thirty seconds. “It’s the same as here. Palm recognition with a number pad.”
I swore again. It required both to open. I could bypass the number code, by cross-circuiting some wires, but the palm code was another issue entirely.
There were numerous scuba tanks lying around the bulkheads and in the equipment lockers. Richard and I closed the hatches into the chamber—from the lift and offices and the corridors—and began to open the tanks, venting the air outward.
I grabbed my PCD and signalled Meg in SC-1. “Is Sahar there?”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re at the moonpool. Plan B. Please call City Control and warn them.”
We’d already anticipated this. Sahar had one of her people at Pressure Control, waiting.
We hoped.
We knew the cameras were watching and recording us, but there would be no need for anyone to review the footage until much later, when they realized that there was a decoy laser pack in their labs. Then they’d see what we’d done, but it didn’t matter.
By then, it’d be too late.
“There are thirty tanks in here, give or take,” Richard said.
“Do them all.”
We moved quickly. Ten minutes passed, and I wondered how Commodore Clarke’s efforts were progressing. Hopefully he was stalling and causing a ruckus with Johnny in the cell.
The pressure was building, and we had to continually perform the Valsalva maneuver—squeezing our nose and forcing air into our ear canals. Normally used for popping one’s ears, now it was to equalize pressure. Scuba divers did it all the time; I’d had lots of practice. Once, two years ago, I’d achieved the world record of deep dives, although no one else knew about it.
Except Kat, but she was now dead and gone.
I shivered.
The sound was shrill as the tanks continued to vent.
Richard’s face was red as he struggled to keep up with the increasing pressure. “I’m not sure how much more I can handle . . . ” he ground out.
On the hatch display, the pressure was at 5.7 atms.
The alarm started to flash, but there was no sound.
Sahar’s person had silenced it.
Normally City Control would have noticed and sprung into action. Any pressure issues were a major danger to the city integrity.
But I knew what would happen here.
The computer would act in order to prevent the hull from rupturing outward.
There was a clang of equipment as a mechanism unlocked.
And the moonpool hatch slid aside.
—••—
It was an automatic self-preservation system to protect the colony. Each cabin or travel tube had pressure monitors. It was important that the interior pressure perfectly matched the exterior at all times, without exception. If they matched, and the moonpool was open, then the water would not rise into the module. It was a conduit directly out into the ocean. But with the pressure increasing in the chamber, the computer recognized that the only way to equalize was to open the hatch and allow the excess air out.
As the hatch rumbled aside, the air blew outward and a flood of bubbles churned down into the water.
The pressure plunged in the moonpool chamber and our ears popped again and again until it normalized at four atms. The water in the pool churned as the air rushed out, large bubbles blew downward toward the seafloor—which was only five meters below the pool—and then they seemed to slither and squirm along the edge of the module as if they were organic things with minds of their own before they soared freely to the surface thirty meters above. Had someone been watching from the outside, they might have called City Control to report a pressure emergency. Still, the blue pressure lights were not flashing, and there was no alarm ringing.
I raised the PCD to my lips. “Cliff, Meg—it’s time.”
The dark pool slowly calmed and ceased its roiling. Then a metal spear pierced the surface and rose upward into the chamber.
SC-1.
Meg had brought it to the surface, but she wasn’t going to moor the ship.
She was just hovering in place, just over the surface of the seafloor.
I looked up at the ceiling and located a hoist. Dangling below it was a harness sling with wide straps. “Richard, we have to find the controls to that.”
“Already got them.”
He was looking better already. The pressure had stabilized and he’d recovered quickly. He was at a console and was also looking at the ceiling. There was a hydraulic whine as he manipulated the crane and lowered the harness toward the pool. SC-1 lurched in the water and then a moment later began to descend again. I could see Meg and Renée in the pilot cabin. Renée was smiling at me through the canopy.
She waved.
I risked a quick smile in return.
“Keep your mind on the job,” Richard said.
“Don’t worry.”
“Distractions, remember . . . ”
“I got it.”
SC-1 disappeared, her thrusters churning the water as it descended and powered away to the west. Richard lowered the harness, and it sank below the water’s surface. I stared down, trying to make something out. Then Meg turned on the powerful floodlights at the bow of the seacar, illuminating the area under Richard and me. There, on the seafloor, was a large object enclosed in a yellow waterproof tarp. A scuba diver was swimming around it, wrapping the harness around the device. He pushed the straps under it, brought them up the other side, and connected each to the harness, which was attached with a chain to the hoist.
It was Cliff Sim. His bubbles rose and broke the moonpool’s surface. Eventually he backed away, looked up, and gave the thumbs-up sign.
Richard activated the hoist, and it started to whine once more, only shriller this time.
The decoy wasn’t as heavy as the real thing, however. We’d have to go through the same process again, but in reverse as we moved the real laser module out to SC-1.
In my ear, the comm clicked. “Mac, it’s Clarke.”
“Go ahead.” I watched as the package rose from the water. I stepped aside and pointed at the elevator lift platform. There were large yellow hatch marks and arrows on the deck—warnings to stay away while lifting heavy objects onto the lift’s deck.
“There are only three guards in the lab in the upper level.”
I grunted. We’d predicted that it would be a reduced complement during the festivities, but this was better than we could have hoped for. The laser was in the upper level, and the lift would take us straight there.
He continued, “I believe there are three on the lower level. No one has even spoken to me. I took a quick circuit. I’m going to see if I can get them to accompany me to see Johnny now.”
“Will they release him to you?”
“I’m not sure yet. What’s happening down there?”
I told him, and he remained quiet for a moment. “We’re right on schedule,” he eventually replied. “Good luck. I’ll see if I can get these guards to come with me now.”
I watched Richard as he lowered the device to the lift platform. “We’ll be up there in about three minutes,” I estimated.
“Got it.” He clicked off.
I unhooked the harness and Richard moved the hoist back to its original position. Then we quickly unzipped the waterproof yellow tarp, bundled it up, and I threw it to the side.
Cliff surfaced in the moonpool and hauled himself up to the deck. He spit out the regulator and pushed his mask up. “Do you need help with the laser?”
“Stay here,” I said. “We can’t let anyone see you.” I gestured at the tarp. “Get this ready to use again.” I stepped onto the lift and Richard joined me. “We’ll be right back.”
—••—
SC-1 was still below the module, waiting. When we brought the laser pack, we’d lower it into the water and to the sandy seafloor. Then Meg and Renée would use the seacar, with its moonpool hatch open, and swallow the laser inside.
If we could get it back down to the moonpool.
The moan of the hydraulics was shrill as it pushed us to the upper deck.
The gate swung upward as it came to a stop.
—••—
Richard and I looked absolutely official as we marched confidently from the lift and into the corridor. I checked the PCD and noted the position of the tracker that Johnny had left in the lab. I pointed and Richard and I turned down a wide passage toward a hatch just as wide. There was a BSFRL logo again, with a stenciled energy beam research label under it.
We approached the hatch.
It didn’t open.
“Shit,” I said.