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Tempting as it is to tell the A.I. to be hold for Gully, duty overrides your curiosity. “What’s wrong with the Mackerel?”
HOPI’s voice is grim. “They fell a little further than we did.”
Gully pulls away from your cheek, wiping away at the blood on her fingertips. Then, reaching for her helmet, murmurs, “…we should get going.”
…you really should. “You gonna be okay?”
“Mmmm. Controls are responsive, but I’m not moving until we’re uncoupled.”
“Right, right…I think HOPI might’ve set up a relay between our PUXEXO’s. So stay close, and I can pass on anything you want back up to the surface.”
“…understood.”
Gully looks like she might say something else. only to pull away at the last second as you shut the hatch on your way out.
>>Line Break
It’s both a testament to the speed of the submarine, as well as the reaction time of the pilot to maneuver the vessel as fast and far away from the blast radius. Not nearly fast enough, though, given how the distress beacon’s gone off. They aren’t nearly as armored as you or Gully’s PUEXOs.
The Mackerel’s come to rest at the edge of a cliff, teetering over a drop-off that goes down into a pitch-black abyss seemingly carved into the ocean floor. It’s deep enough where you can’t even see the bottom, even with the aid of a PUEXO’s full suite of high-beam lights.
You raise the suit’s right arm, cycling to an LDM tool, and take a measurement of the drop-off.
…
The meter clocks in at 1.8km, the maximum distance, before spitting out a reading that says the trench goes on further beyond what it can measure. That’s an awfully long way down, and a slow, painful death by suffocation for the Mackerel if they fall off the edge…
…if the pressure didn’t kill them first and fold the submarine like a sardine tin.
Its stern took the worst of the blast. What’s left of the rudder is a twisted wreck, and the propellers are spinning uselessly with the tide. But the fact that you can see air bubbles slowly streaming out of the rear is a very BAD sign. To make matters worse, half of the sub is buried underneath a significant pile of debris.
You thumb through the channels, and open a line on the submarine’s frequency. “Mackerel, this is Razor, come in Mackerel, over.”
No response, not even the dry hiss of static. You try again twice, only to get the same result each time.
“Tell Gully to hold her position,” you mutter to HOPI, then switch the channel to the surface. “Sybil, this is Razor. I’ve got eyes on the Mackerel. Moving in to begin rescue operations…”
In theory, the cliff should be enough to support the Magellan's weight, but you aren’t taking any chances. You jet carefully, skirting just along the edge of the drop-off with your sensory suite working overtime. Sonar and radar chart a rough topographic map that overlays your HUD, allowing you to make precise movements on only the most stable parts of the cliff.
(cont.)
