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A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “That the engineer in you talking? Dis-and-re-assemble?”
“Bit of Column A and B,” you readily admit. “Figure that I could add it to the list of things I can repair on the side.”
“Side?”
“Side hustle. I used to run a shop out of my berth on the Duck, repairing odd ends and knick-knacks from dozens of roughnecks. The kind of stuff that wouldn’t be approved to send to the maintenance platform.”
She gives you an odd look. “On top of being a PUEXO pilot?”
<span class="mu-i">When you literally make however many ducats just by being on retainer?</span>
Someone in the know or scuttlebutt about your unique position must’ve reached her, because the impassive façade on her face cracks for the briefest second. “Oh, shit…sorry.”
“Nah, it’s…alright,” you say, then segue to change the topic, “But the money does help. Pays for lunch and small amenities, pocket-change and day-to-day living expenses. Plus, I got really good at fixing odd ends and knick-knacks.”
By the time you finish, Gully doesn’t have her foot in her mouth anymore. Her expression is once more schooled into a cool, mild indifference. Albeit blemished with a downward gaze to the camera parts. “I only learned how to service it because no-one else knows how to do it.”
“Well, you could show me,” you easily offer, “Then there’d be two who know how to service it.”
Your fellow pilot gives you a, as if searching for some scheme. There is one you have in mind, but only insofar as Gully paying you to service the camera. And only if she was unable to fix it. But she seems to settle on the idea that you have no nefarious angles at learning about the Polaroid. Gully breathes, exhaling as she raps the metal casing with a sharp knuckle.
“The Polaroid was a gift from the…from my father,” she says quietly, correcting herself at the last moment. “He gave it to me when I was little, and said that he pulled it up from a shipwreck near the Andean Freehold. Along with enough film to get me started.”
Ah. So there’s a sentimental value attached to it. And there goes any significant chances of finding another camera like hers in the Babylonia market places. A damned shame, but you can’t really do anything about it.
But in the face of Gully’s statement, you don’t really know what to say. Then, “…you must’ve taken a lot of good photos over the years.”
Her expression tightens into something indeterminate, less aloof and self-certain, before relaxing. “They wouldn’t get into NatGeo or Variety. Just…pictures of whatever I find interesting.” She pauses, and that elusive smile pulls at the corner of her lips. “Maybe after the expedition, I’ll show you what's in the album.”
Now your interest is definitely piqued. What could this unreadable young woman find interesting?
“Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, frowning, “The film for the Polaroid?"
You nod. "Yeah? What about it?"
(cont.)
