Kabelo Levato Molefe sat in his central position in the control room of his destroyer sub, the Vortex Rider. A comparable yellow dot blipped on his radar semi-adjacent to his vessel as it cruised in tandem, matching his speed. The Eel Fang, captained by his comrade Rudolf Du Plessis, took a defensive position, not too close to the Vortex Rider, to avoid presenting both vessels as a viable target for a single torpedo.

  Captain Molfe looked at his tablet, which displayed a file listing names and objectives. He tabbed down with a rubber arrow off the screen's side, passing dozens of names of unfortunate selectees who had stopped contributing to society and become more of a hindrance. The captain didn't love this part of his job, but this work was necessary.

  Molfe's XO, Lucy Parker, stepped to the command deck through the hatch. Her raised burn scar popped out on her neck. She usually wore her platinum blond hair down to cover the blemish but had it tied up under her armored helmet for the operation. Teel highlights accentuated the edges of her mat black synthetic body armor over her wetsuit. The right side of her breastplate proudly bore the armada's symbol, stenciled in minty green—a corral crown with a saber sticking through point down. Parker carried her carbine slung across her chest.

  "Sir," she crossed the deck to Captain Molfe and clicked her heels together.

  "Are the men ready," Molfe alsked?

  "Ready and eager," Parker affirmed.

  Molfe reached out and pulled his intercom receiver to his lips. His thumb hovered over the push-to-talk (PTT) button, but he hesitated. Something deep inside recoiled from the task at hand. His eyes darted back to his XO, who nodded encouragingly. Molfe engaged the PTT.

  "Sailors and marines of the Vortex rider—" his voice echoed through all the halls and chambers of his sub. "The people of Joberg are under our watch and care, and we must do anything to ensure their survival." Molfe disengaged the button and took a breath. "I hesitate to ask any of you to go there and save them. You don't know them; they're strangers, and you'll be putting yourselves directly into the line of fire as some among them seek to upset their community's order. They strive to pursue their selfish interests at the expense of the common man."

  The pilot, navigations, and weapons officer, who shared the control deck with him, watched him intently.

  "But I know I can rely on you, my brothers and sisters. We are not alone. The Eel Fang accompanies us on our rescue mission. Together, we will save the city!"

  Molfe took a deep breath. "Ah roo Hah!"

  In response, his men echoed the thunderous war cry down the corridors of his steel vessel, stamping the steel flooring and slapping the walls wherever they heard the intercom.

  "To the launch pods," Molfe Barked. "We'll arrive shortly."

  ********

  "Next," The bored receptionist croaked as someone shuffled away from the cubical.

  Thulani sat upright in his seat. He waited in the queue for forty-five minutes to get his turn. Arriving before the Oxygen Filtration Office opened paid off. Then, he had to contend only with the others who had the same idea and waited in line outside the facility.

  Thulani practically jumped out of his seat and hurried over to the girl. Her fair skin was dark enough to suggest mixed ethnicity, and her thick, wavy black hair was clipped back and out of her face.

  "How can I help you?" she drawled, her voice apathetic and devoid of life.

  "Yes, I've discovered a serious error in the oxygen readings," Thulani explained through the glass shield. The life support report fluctuates from twenty-one point four to twenty-one point eight, but it's wrong. I ran an old scan, and it's three full percent lower than that—ma'am?"

  She had stopped listening about halfway through, and her attention shifted back to her monitor.

  "This is serious. O2 levels are dangerously low; we need to fix it immediately."

  "Sir, if you want extra air in your home, you'll need to buy personal canisters and get a respirator. You won't receive special privileges just because you're lightheaded."

  Thulani stared at her dumbly. "Ma'am, the report is wrong. The entire city is exposed to low oxygen levels, and no one realizes it because there's a bug in the readers."

  "Sir," I assure you, the reports are accurate." She found something much more interesting to examine under her fingernails than to look at yet another disgruntled skeptic.

  Thulani steepled his hands to his lips and took a shuddered breath. "Look—" he glanced at her nameplate. "—Lydia, I can prove it. I ran the old program, and it's inconsistent."

  "So?" Lydia shrugged. "The new one's better."

  Thulani’s eyebrows furrowed. "Lady, can't you breathe? Do you have lungs or a brain, or are you so suffocated you can't tell the difference?"

  "Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down," her brows furrowed in irritated defiance.

  "I am calm!" Thulani snapped. "Do you hate your life so much you're going to ignore a problem that could potentially wipe out the city?"

  She glared at him. "I think you should leave."

  "And I think you should call your manager. My girl is carrying our baby, and if that child gets hurt from the oxygen deficiency, it's your ass!"

  Lydia sighed and picked up a comm receiver. "Philip, I've got a customer you should talk to."

  "Thank you!" Thulani exclaimed in relief. Finally getting traction, some of the heat drained from his face. "Listen, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. You probably get crazy people all the time. I know you just work here, and the bug isn't your doing—"

  A side hatch opened, and a man in a uniform entered, carrying a flashlight and a collapsed baton on his belt.

  "That's not a manager," Thulani realized.

  "No," Lydia sneered, "It's security."

  "Let's go, pal," the security guard got a hand on Thulani's bicep.

  "Get your hands off me!" Thulani jerked away.

  "Sir!" the man said with an edge to his voice. A brass nameplate on his shirt read Philip.

  Thulani’s jaw dropped. How was this possible? He was here to solve a problem, to help people, but now they wanted to sweep him under the rug?

  Thulani knew he shouldn't worsen the situation, and he was confident he could find other channels. However, he was sick of being disregarded.

  He turned to the other patrons, waiting their turn, sitting in the lobby's small chairs.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "The software is broken!" he cried to them.

  "Alright!" Philip grabbed Thulani roughly and towed him toward the exit.

  "They don't realize it; the air is way too thin; you're not getting enough oxygen!"

  Thulani double-hopped and stumbled as Philip shoved him out the door.

  Thulani restrained himself from retaliating. Philip was comparable in weight, but something uncivilized in Thulani wanted to swing.

  "Gah!" The frustrated pod tech hissed as he stomped back down the stairs.

  Surely, they would discover the error eventually after people started dropping and suffering irreversible brain damage.

  A respirator. Lydia may have been trying to deflect him, but she had also inadvertently given him a solution. Personal oxygen canisters would be costly, but if he couldn't save the city, he would sure as hell save his baby.

  Thulani cursed when the clock tower chimed. Mr. Vermeulen's warning rang in a vague recess at the back of his mind. Should he call in sick? Thulani dismissed the warning. He was tight on cash, and Olivia was home. He was already late for work and would need to run all the way to the maintenance dock. Of course, that would have been easier if there were any damn oxygen in the air.

  ********

  Cornelius Vermeulen glanced at his watch. It was vintage, with ticking hands hidden behind fragile glass. Why did they still use twenty-four-hour days in the depths of the ocean? They had no natural light, no seasons, and not even nostalgia. After several generations, no one had memories of the surface, and most of the populace was unaware of life outside Joberg's hull.

  Cornelius met James, his driver's eyes reflecting in the rearview mirror, and nodded.

  His electric vehicle pulled to a stop. The car ran on a track system that few could afford to utilize.

  James lit the fuse on a small brown paper package and dropped it on the floor.

  After seconds, acrid smoke filled the cab.

  Cornelius held a handkerchief to his nose and stepped out, his driver close behind. Smokebombing his own car was an unfortunate necessity. His eyes flicked up at a street camera. The council had already arranged for the surveillance system to go down, so the theatrics were for the witnesses. Luckily, not many people occupied the streets, but Cornelius already saw a few heads turn.

  The councilman drew his tablet and called the line directly to the assembly hall. The tablet was small, so it only admitted a weak built-in transmitter. A fuzzy image of his colleagues appeared.

  "Cornelius," Thabo huffed through the tablet, the details of his dark skin and square jaw grainy and pixelated. “Where are you?"

  "Unfortunately, I ran into some car trouble," Cornelius said, turning the device to reveal the smoking "We'll send someone to pick you up at once!" Khethiwe said, her obese face pushed into focus from the side.

  "Don't bother," Cornelius glanced at his watch again. "They won't get here on time."

  "Hurry, councilman," Thabo said. "We have most of the police force assembled at the assembly hall. It's the only place we can guarantee your protection."

  "I'll find a hatch and seal myself in. Besides, Mandla will keep me safe."

  The picture on the screen cleared momentarily, and Councilwoman Madaline Miller narrowed her smoky blue eyes at him. "Let me talk to Mandla," she said. "I want to make sure he's confident in your security."

  Cornelius suppressed a smile.

  Councilwoman Miller was his favorite committee associate. She was sharper than the rest of their comrades, possibly more cunning than even he, and therefore the most dangerous. Although Councilwoman Miller was confident in Mandla's competence, her request to talk to him wasn't genuine. She wanted to prompt a response so she could analyze their reactions. Always suspicious, she had a knack for sniffing out lies.

  Cornelius looked up at his driver, his only companion. Of course, she'd try to validate his authenticity with a request he couldn't back up.

  "Mandla's scoping out a good hatch to hole up in," Cornelius lied. "Waiting out the storm was his idea."

  Councilwoman Miller narrowed her eyes at her rival. She read the council members like books. Cornelius's book, however, was written in encrypted code, and she only had half the cipher.

  He smiled meaningfully to throw her off further. "I'll meet up with you when it's over."

  "Stay safe," Khethiwe said through swollen lips.

  Cornelius terminated the call without a response. "Let's go."

  James led the way. They wove around a supply depot and entered through a hatch in the back. The warehouse had been out of commission for months due to noncompliance with the city safety code. Cornelius blinked at the harsh propane lantern light, which silhouetted his assembly of malcontents.

  Dirty men in jumpsuits, grungy work clothes, and a few with makeshift shark leather shirts crouched or leaned on stacked plastic containers. Mandla stood behind several folding tables topped by hardshell plastic cases. The light gleamed in the bodyguard's near-black eyes, and his dark skin absorbed the light.

  Cornelius strode through the crowd of almost three dozen men, who silently parted before him. The councilman noticed many carrying knives and hatchets as he joined his chief enforcer. Cornelius unbuckled one of the cases.

  Two retriever fang harpoon guns lay in protective foam molds. Damn, they had been expensive, but he expected a return on his investment: six cases, twelve retriever fangs. He hoisted one of the heavy weapons from its case, turned it, and handed it to Mandla.

  Cornelius sought out a thin, balding man who glanced uncomfortably at the others.

  "Frans," Cornelius said, and the old man jumped.

  "Ye—Yes, sir?" Frans pushed round wire glasses back up his nose.

  "Are the pods ready?"

  Frans practically squirmed under the watch of the gangster-infested chamber.

  "Both should be automated and off the Hardline."

  "Will those drives do their job?"

  Franse nodded and wiped the glistening sweat from his forehead.

  Cornelius smiled and scrutinized his men. His small army watched him intently, probably hoping for final words before the action. Who did they think he was?

  "Don't disappoint me," Cornelius said before turning and putting a hand on Mendla's shoulder.

  Mandla pulled a scarf around his face and nose and slipped his green goggles on. He had stenciled in a skeletal shark grin, which he wore over his mouth. Around him, the others tied matching shark grin scarfs over their faces.

  Cornilous cocked a curious eyebrow. The mask wasn't something he required, so it must have been a moral choice or a uniform that Mandla implemented.

  Mandla nodded once.

  Cornelius and his driver left for the shelter.

  ********

  Thulani punched in at the dock's front terminal and ran to his pod. Two hours late? No doubt someone would talk to him about it. Olivia had called in sick, so maybe he could piggyback on that for an excuse.

  Someone was probably assigned to his pod in his absence, so he'd likely be assigned to bay duty.

  Thulani wove around a forklift and a hydraulic crane, then stopped at his decamp portal. Surprisingly, the green light over the hatch flickered, indicating that his pod was still docked.

  Two men argued in front of the sealed hatch, and Thulani froze. Neither seemed to notice the tech, so he inched backward. Might as well make it a full sick day.

  "Thulani!" One of the men snapped as he turned. In a red mechanic's jumpsuit that he filled at the chest and shoulders, Johan scowled at the retreating man.

  Thulani swore.

  "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Johan's jaw bulged on his square face as he pounced. The spiky tips of his blond hair seemed to quiver with rage. "What the bliksem did you do to your air system, Jou Donner?

  "What?" Thulani gulped, "What's wrong with it?"

  "Johan—" Tshepo, Thulani's manager, tried to appease the mechanic.

  "I already told you it's not a mechanical issue. The ventilation system is fine," Johan jabbed a finger at Thulani. "I know he likes to kak with the computers!"

  "What happened?" Thulani asked, trying not to wilt under everyone's least favorite machinist.

  "Your pod's oxygen reserves depleted abnormally fast," Tshepo explained. "I figured the ventilation system must be damaged—"

  "It's not," Johan cut in. "You need a systems tech, not a mechanic." Johan glared at Thulani. "And this bastard needs to stop playing with it."

  Tshepo turned to Thulani. "Do you know anything about this?"

  Thulani took a breath. No one listened to him about the oxygen, but he knew he was right. Did he have an obligation to tell them the truth, even at the expense of his job and social standing, or did they deserve to suffocate because they disregarded him?

  He glanced at Johan, brow furrowed and arms folded, then at Thshepo, who, in Thulani's silence, seemed to realize he knew something more about the ventilation error.

  Thulani sighed. "You see—"

  The dock rocked, and all three men staggered. Tools clattered to the grated floor, and a crate tipped with a crash. Thulani caught himself on a box.

  "The hell?" Johan snapped.

  The roof screeched as something grated against the steel, and Thulani clapped his hands over his ears with a cry.

  A drill ruptured the ceiling like a knife through a membrane, and the bay plunged into darkness. Spinning red emergency lights flashed to life in disorienting waves, and a guttural alarm wailed.

  "A raid?" Thulani gawked in disbelief.

  The drill beak split into five slices, each peeling back and exposing the attack pod's dark interior. Three errant water jets blasted through the seal with enough force to throw a man across the bay.

  "Get down!" Thulani cried, and a few other laborers in the dock dove for cover.

  Johan stood, glaring defiantly at the hole, as a half-dozen black ropes tumbled from the breach and combatants in black tac-gear rappelled down.