>>5213209>>5213411>>5213465>>5213471>>5213548They run the gamut from yachts and barges, cruise liners and cargo haulers, oil tankers and armed warships. Some sank whole and intact, others torn and wrenched violently apart. Hulls of all shapes and sizes have come to rest in the commingled waters of the formerly Hunts and Cagway Bays. But even diminished, the tallest among them still cast long shadows over the graveyard, the coral kingdom that’s emerged, and your own PUEXO.
The HUD struggles to ID them, approximating their original shapes and designs on one of the myriad computer screens that line the cockpit. Suffice to say that from what you see in the database, they were truly great ships of their time.
Clearing your throat, you hit the throttle and trudge forward into the graveyard. “See any spaceships? How about high-atmo shuttles or escape pods?”
Even wrecked or drained of fuel, those fetch high prices. High technological ends that the eggheads back in Babylonia hope to reverse engineer in the hopes of putting satellites, then mankind, back into orbit.
“Hmmmm…nope,” reports HOPI, “Doesn’t look like there anything like that.”
“Damn. Figures it wouldn’t be that easy.”
Most of the wildlife scatters at your approach, but some stay or otherwise recognize that you aren’t one of their predators. Schools of fish swim without a care in the world, gasping and gulping at microscopic plankton or other small animals. Crabs scuttle underfoot, ducking beneath coral, evading the jaws of eels and suckers of octopi.
But it’s the coral and sponges that festoon and encrust their hulls that makes you pause and wonder. For the mass extinction that happened above land during the Dark Winter, it looks like the ocean’s faired significantly better. They come in all colors, all shapes and sizes…even the iconic brain coral that’s often been the butt of many divers’ jokes.
Of the dozen sharks that linger, a lone hammerhead circles you cautiously. The lizard part of your brain screams at you to still, warring with the urge to keep on trekking past a hard-wired evolutionary threat. It closes the distance almost lazily, approaching you with a curious gait. It’s jaws open, and takes a harmless bite out of your left arm before the hammerhead swims away to find meatier prey.
“Minimal damage,” HOPI chirps, “Nothing that a fresh coat of paint won’t fix.”
“If he comes again, I’m shooting,” you say grimly, thumbing the safety on the wrist-mounted harpoon gun. “We’ll have shark-fin soup for dinner.”
“You’d have to kill at least…seven to make enough for the whole crew.”
You’re not sure whether or not to be impressed that she did the math. “I’ve got four in the chamber, and another eight to spare. Plenty to go around for his buddies, and maybe a big, fatty tuna."
But you aren’t here to do big game hunting, so you pull away from the safety and continue your trek into the graveyard.
(cont.)
