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…and people think that civility got thrown out the window when the sun exploded. The stress and anxiety you compartmentalized leaks through ever-so-slightly, and you allow yourself to feel a brief moment of relief, satisfaction and pride in the work you’ve done.
Then it’s back to business. You hastily tap back an acknowledgement and orders to wait. Gully’s Caprica is already moving, and you jet after her to safe, more stable ground for a rapid, emergency ascent to the surface.
“Disengage safeties,” you order, accelerating to maximum speed. The Calypso and her unfriendly escorts are a half a kilometer away. “Icarus Override. Bring us as close to the threshold as possible without tearing the reactor apart.”
“I need vocal confirmation,” requests HOPI.
“…Caroline.”
“Icarus Override engaged. Let’s not fly too close to the sun of nuclear fission, shall we?”
As the A.I. makes her preparations, you call Gully: “I’ll clear a hole. You come in after I give the go-ahead.”
She doesn’t argue with that. Her PUEXO’s a mangled mess as it is. Luckily for her, Mk. IVs were built for space maneuvering, so they’ve got far more jets and thrusters to use. Still, even a half-damaged PUEXO can wreak some devastation.
>>Checking...
>>You have earned enough Gully Points...
But the sole arm of her Caprica extends, curving to gently brush alongside the front of your solitary viewport. It lingers, four metallic fingers sliding across the treated plastic-glass right where your face affords a view of the ocean floor…
“…be safe,” whispers Gully.
…then pulls back, and retreats as your fellow pilot gives you room for the launch.
You take a deep breath, angling PUEXO upward. 300 odd meters above you, the shadows cast by the boats should cover your ascent up until the very last moment. Your LZ is the aft deck of the Calypso. Should that not work, or pose a danger to your crewmates, then one of the raiders’ torpedo boats. Even if you don’t get completely out of the water, the full weight of your PUEXO would cause some interesting imbalances.
“Initiate countdown?” queries HOPI.
You shake your head, stilling your trembling fingers as you grip the stick. “I might change my mind. Launch her now.”
Her answer comes as a suit-wide roar, and an intense vibration as your jets and thrusters burn and spin far beyond what they’re rated for. You jerk in the seat, harness rattling as the force of the acceleration pins your head fast against the chair. The vibrations are so intense that you can barely make out the gauges – pressure, temperature, depth…the latter of which is readily ticking upward.
“…tw-two hundred seventy-nine meters,” stutters HOPI, “…two hundred twenty-four meters…”
(cont.)
