>>5192803>>5192809>>5192861>>5192863>>5192930>>5192980The vehicle bay comprises nearly all of the aft deck, nearly a whopping twenty-five meters of the whatever eighty-something that comprises the entirety of the <span class="mu-i">Calypso</span>. Beyond a section dedicated to the PUEXO hangars and the knuckleboom crane mounts, the deck itself would be empty beyond the swaying rigs of small boats, and a deck hatch that houses a <span class="mu-i">Mackerel</span>-class scout submarine. True to form, Elishani seems to run a tighter ship than what you’d otherwise see pulling into Dockside.
But you aren’t here to admire the scenery. You’re here to work. And right now, the site is a bustling hive of activity as deckhands go about their day-to-day operations. Barring an orange armband that designates them as maintenance, the uniforms of the men and women vary from waist-drawn mechanic’s jumpsuits and sleeveless tops, to working leathers and canvas Levi’s.
You stand somewhat awkwardly, content to lean against the wall and observe the deckhands. Maintenance is a universal language, easily translated from one place to another. The basics of oil rig repair and service seem to apply just as readily to a salvage trawler, based on the equipment everyone shoulders. Elishani’s crew operates like a well-oiled machine, moving with a professional confidence and purpose.
“Gripper-One’s gimbal is pulling sluggish. I think there might be either a short or a hydraulic leak in the housing mechanism.”
“Sergeant Kwan’s on the other end of the line, looking for the small-arms ammunition crate that was dropped off here yesterday…”
“Yes, sir. The sonar and radar arrays are working in perfect order. All that’s left to do is calibrate the buoys and stress-test the connection lines…”
“Hey, you there! You lookin’ for someone?”
That last one’s directed at you. Blinking out of your reverie, you turn to the source of the noise, only to find it coming straight towards you.
She’s a tall woman, only a scant few inches shorter than you. And heavyset in the way that hardworking, blue-collar folk are. Or just the kind of build that roughnecks and Jack Tars build over several years of service. Her age is easier to peg than Gully’s, late twenties or early thirties. And her accent’s the textbook definition of someone born and raised Dockside. Your people.
But beyond a mechanic’s jumpsuit, her most prominent feature is a faded baseball hat, resting on curly black hair. The colors have almost completely washed out, save for that of a handstitched logo. Some sort of brown-orange bird. Hopefully one that didn’t go extinct during the Dark Winter.
There isn’t any malice or accusation in her eyes as she comes to a stop. Only a friendly grin, and a subdued sense of curiosity. “HOLT” is stitched onto a Velcro patch placed just above the insignia of the Babylonia merchant marine.
“Or is it somethin’ that you’re lookin’ for?” she adds.
(cont.)
