FLASH TEMPEST

The Dome had its own weather. At 4:00 AM, those bright minds at Control would let out the daily storm. On the dot: lightning, thunder, heavy rain. 

From my narrow bed, I could hear the tempest hitting the Buffer Zone, pouring down into the Lower Levels like a bag of knuckles, making the Sump worthy of its name.  

It was 4:05 AM now, but trying to sleep wasn’t on my wish list. I wasn’t trying to get up, either. There was enough scrip in my name for me to pretend I didn’t have to work for a week. Maybe more, if I didn’t take any deep breaths. But I knew they – one of the clean-lungs from the Top –  would be sending me a Black Card soon. It happened often enough. Divers like me didn't get many days off.  

My mind sort of drifted with the water to the Sump. It always did. For the people struggling down there, the daily Wash, as they called it, was just a pause between the everlasting sticky drizzle they cursed as Dead Sweat. 

They also had a name for what I did – and it wasn’t “diving.” It might also be a curse. I didn’t hold it against them. It was hard enough to survive down there without having fixers like me meddling in their business. But we all gotta earn the air we breathe. They knew that, too. The ones who mattered, anyway. The ones who prevented me from ending my diving career face-down in a cabbage tank without snorkel gear. 

At 4:15, everything stopped. The storm was over. Until the next day.

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