>>5225964>>5225965>>5226000>>5226028>>5226172>>5226200>>Query won by the time of the writing...You sigh. Any sort of harsh reprimanding just fades away. But you aren’t about to nearly let her off the hook. “What the hell’s so important about the box that you couldn’t let it go?”
Gully looks defensive. “I…I have my reasons.”
“Must’ve been a really good reason,” you say dryly. “I don’t know the going rate for spaceship black boxes, but I really hope it’ll cover the cost of repairs for your Caprica.”
“It will,” she counters heatedly. “This thing’s worth its weight in gold several times over.” Gully pauses, visibly thinking. “…if you’re nice, I’ll let you have a share when I turn it in.”
In spite of the situation, you let out a harsh bark of laughter. It rings in your helmet, and in the tight confines of the cockpit. “I already have a share just by being down here. No different than with what you get from all the crap I tagged back in the boat graveyard. And believe me, I tagged a LOT.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but closes as her eyes go wide. “You’re hurt.”
“So are you,” you counter not unkindly, reaching for the clasp behind your neck. Fumbling blindly, you feel the smooth latch and pull, releasing the TAComm Helmet’s grip from your head. “Hold this for me, please…”
Gully does so, gingerly taking your helmet as blood runs down the front of your face.
“Tell you what,” you offer, “Why don’t we clean ourselves up first? See if we can’t fix any of your electronic suite and get your reactor back online. Then we’ll get back to bickering. Sound good?”
The fact that she actually takes a moment to weigh either option…well, she decides not to press the issue any further. “Yeah…but what about the Mackerel? And the Calypso?”
“One thing at a time,” you mutter, reaching for your first aid kit. “HOPI, how’re we looking?”
“Diagnostic’s finished,” the A.I. chirps, “Most of the Caprica’s sensors and comm suites are fried, but everything related to operations escaped relatively unscathed.”
“See what you can fix in about ten minutes. We gotta go check up on the Mackerel.” Then, you add as an afterthought, “And let the surface know that I’ve got contact with Gully. Should take some pressure off the captain’s nerves.”
Gully undoes her helmet, shaking her head to allow the cascade of silvery-white hair come down her shoulders. “And here I thought you let me be the ExEl for this dive, Unami.”
You shrug, tearing open an antiseptic. “That might’ve gone out the window with your PUEXO half-crippled…”
It doesn’t take too long for you to dress each other’s wounds. The tight confines of the cockpit, and the lack of a mirror forces you adapt as best you can. Both you and Gully hiss, or otherwise curse quietly as the sting of alcohol and antiseptic chases away any dregs of mental fog from the shockwave.
(cont.)
