>>5209480>>5209498>>5210007>>5210084>>5210324>>Southern ShoalsWith the decision made, it seems that there’s little left for either of you to do. But before you leave, Elishani holds his hand up, and gives either of you a long, hard stare. Moreso to Gully than yourself, but no less intense.
“Both of you, come back alive,” he orders. “That city already has its fair share of bodies without adding anymore to the tally.”
Gully nods sharply. You do as well.
Her reasons are her own for going to the command structure. Something in her eyes…just gives you an odd feeling. But you know your reason well enough to grab as much salvage as you possibly can. A reason that crosses the line between selfishness and altruism.
<span class="mu-i">“Uncle!”</span>
>>Scene breakThe cockpit is a spherical thing, lined to the gills with all the equipment and systems needed to operate the PUEXO. Hybrid digital-analog computers and gauges for pressure, oxygen and CO2 flicker dimly in the low-level lightning. You cram yourself into a seat that’s been placed like an afterthought, and punch a button that closes the canopy with a wet hiss of hydraulics and pneumonic machinery.
It isn’t just skill and good health that gets someone chosen for the PUEXO program. Physicology matters, too. All the training in the world won’t do anyone any good if they couldn’t fit in the cockpit. The steel sphere, nature’s perfect shape for resisting pressure, was built for survivability, not comfort.
You’re a fairly tall guy, edging out at 5’11’’, and clock in at around 78.4 kilos. And you barely manage to fit in without a TAComm helmet. There’s only two, maybe three inches above your head and the ceiling. And your final seated position leaves your legs tightly bent, with only just enough space to operate the pedals.
Having a limb go to sleep in the middle of an operation isn’t fun.
“Alright, alright…” you mutter.
You lace up your NERVlink suit, plugging in cords and wires that run power to the heating module. You do the same for another system that monitors your vitals, then reach for the last part of your kit. Once you check that the onboard computer’s reading all of your vitals – body temperature, pulse rate, breathing rate, blood pressure –, you reach for the helmet and slide it over your head.
The helmet cuts out all external noise, and makes the sound of your breath rattle harshly in your ears. You jigger the helmet, adjusting until the rectangular faceplate centers itself around your face. There is a mild pressure, and you shiver as the cool, steel pads of neuroreceptors come into contact with your temples.
“Pattern check: Sinleq Unami, Serial 22A-43.”
What answers is a low squelch of static, then incomprehensible series of digital noises. Seconds later, a synthesized voice replies: <span class="mu-i">“Voice pattern match obtained. Please input command code and standby for biometric scan.”</span>
“Yeah, I know, I know…”
(cont.)
