>>5187121>>5187177>>5187207Larkin starts as you settle down, and pour a fresh set of drinks for both of you. “Who’s…Unami?”
“The one and only,” you answer dryly.
His laughter is more a bark than anything else. “I thought you’d be out of here already.”
“I ain’t in a hurry to go nowhere. ‘sides, it’s a long walk back to the hab, and a whole lot of things can happen during a storm.”
He frowns at that. “…is Pierce giving you trouble?”
<span class="mu-i">When isn’t he?</span> you think dryly to yourself. “That prick’s still ass-blasted that I had stop the diving bell three days ago for emergency repairs. His division lost the to the night shift when they didn’t reach their weekly quota.”
Larkin frowns, downing the offered drink in a single swing. “You had a good reason, didn’t you?”
You nod grimly. “Faulty equipment that would’ve made Bydford Dolphin look like a picnic if I hadn’t otherwise.”
The old man spits his drink, and you barely dodge out of the way in time. Coughing and cursing up a storm, he levels an incredulous glare. “You serious?”
“Yep,” you declare with an audible pop. “He was rushing his safety checks, and didn’t notice that the failsafe seal wasn’t locking properly after the second dive. Too focused on trying to chase that bonus to give a damn about anything else.”
Word had spread like wildfire after that. Humiliating Pierce was the last thing on your mind; the wellbeing of the crew had been. But his downfall had been something to behold. He’d been given a one-month ban from the local temple of Ishtar, and a private lecture from the rig manager. Other roughnecks and roustabouts took to giving wary looks, and all but his loyal supporters left him alone.
“If he’s smart, he’ll thank you and ride out the wave,” mutters Larkin. “Two months, granted, it’ll be water under the rig.”
Unlikely. He’s a good enough driller and a shoe-in for becoming a toolpusher. But his ego is barely able to fit in a diving bell, let alone a saturation suit. And that kind of mental attitude is the kind that gets people needlessly exposed to danger and death. Nothing short of divine intervention, or a personal scolding from a Founding Family, would change that.
“I hate the bastard,” you say with all candor, “But death by delta-P isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy. Painless as people claim it is.”
Larkin shakes his head. “Not if you’re in space.”
You aren’t quite sure about that, but astrology isn’t your strongest subject. “You ever been?”
“No, but my parents did. Little high-altitude tour and twenty minutes of zero-G before coming back down. Came with the honeymoon package, along with a graphic warning of explosive decompression.”
The drink in your hands regulation. Powdered milk with crushed vitamin powder and a shot of blue raspberry. Tastes awful and gets stuck in your throat, but it does the job of warding off scurvy.
(cont.)
