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You glance at the bulkhead door, then to the mess of the gears and interlocking mechanisms. In their haste to deny the raiders entry into the aft and midship, Kwan had mentioned jamming, sealing or otherwise doing everything the marines could to stop them. It had worked, but cleaning up their mess is starting to become an exercise in self-control and aggravation.
“I want to try as much as we can before we have to resort to plasma cutters,” he insists.
Fair enough. Using cutters means isolating the area, and preventing any and all work, traffic and passerby from disturbing you. Hardly an obstacle given the detours via the top deck, but still one that’ll eat well into your allocated shift.
The question had been brought up of doing this back home in drydock, but Elishani was insistent. Scuttlebutt says that he, Geary and Kwan are building up a scathing mountain of evidence to bear against the Salvage Guild for reckless endangerment of the ship. So he’s clearing the bare minimum of bulkheads to not stymie or stifle ship board function, but leaving plenty of evidence of how badly the attack could’ve gone.
Although…hadn’t he said that he would’ve gone out if the Calypso wasn’t prepared? Even though you did win, albeit at a high cost. Hopefully there’s more than a fair share of worker’s comp, hazard pay and post-op cash-outs for everyone affected.
“Count of three, going up,” you mutter, hands on the wheel. All thoughts other than the task at hand are driven out of your mind. “And on three, we all go. Capisce?”
They do. And on said count of three, you all take a deep breath, dig your heels into the flooring, and strain as hard as you can against the interlocking gears. But the four of you aren’t able to get too far, moving the mechanism only a handful of inches before it sticks fast and flush, refusing to move anymore.
“…I’ll get the torches?” asks Darius.
“…two should be enough,” Carter agrees with a frustrated sigh. “And be sure to get Sabine. She and Unami are the only ones here with welding certs.”
“So what am I, chopped liver?” Holt emerges, having finished her task. She watches Darius scamper off, disappearing around a corridor to scurry back above deck. The chief crosses her arms, amused. “It’s nearly enough to make me cry.”
“Sorry, chief. I just thought you’d still be busy with fire-control.”
“I still am, but something came up. How many more bulkheads do we have to go?”
“This…” you pause to check a map of the Calypso, “…and the one between CIC and the armory.”
“See if you can’t go any faster. I’m gettin’ reports about the starboard engine pullin’ sluggish. And before your panties get tied up in knots,” she adds, holding up a hand before any one of you can field questions, “It’s about that time to check the crankshaft anyway. So maybe it’s just due for maintenance.”
“Bet you a gummy pack it isn’t,” Hasazi offers.
(cont.)
