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<span class="mu-s">KER-SPLASH!</span>
…then gravity and the laws of physics do the rest, plunging both PUEXO and pilot down into the ocean’s depths in a controlled, lateral descent. In an instant, the white light that suffuses the cockpit turns a light, playful blue as the canopy slips completely under the surface.
“Razor, you’re now released,” the operator says, “Safe travels and godspeed.”
“I’ll see you topside,” you answer back.
Your descent disturbs a nearby school of fish, drawn to the shadow and activity of the <span class="mu-i">Calypso</span>. They move too quickly for you to tell what they are, swimming away in a cloud of shimmering, silver scales. Tuna, you decide. Hopefully they were tuna.
Maybe Holt can wrangle some of the deckhands to fish everyone some dinner that isn’t salted or otherwise out of a tin can. From the way your stomach grumbles, that’s a sentiment you can get behind.
But before you can ponder the mystery of dinner, you’ve got a post-launch checklist to run through. Which includes a step of establishing contact with the surface.
“Surface, this is Razor. Do you copy, over?”
There’s only a two second delay before you get an answer.
“Hey, jumbo,” drawls the dulcet voice of Tabitha Aalto, “This is ACCOMS <span class="mu-i">Calypso</span>, callsign Sybil. How’re ya doing, over?”
On the one hand…this makes enough sense given the fact that she’s a communications officer.
On the other hand…hoo boy.
Sybil, huh? Makes enough sense given her function and antisocial tendencies. But if the name’s anything to go by, you give it 50-50 odds of her being prone to the frenzied mouth-mutterings of her callsign’s namesake.
“<span class="mu-i">Razor</span> copies, reading you loud and clear, Sybil.” You pause, then consider that two can play at that game. And if asked, she broke radio protocol first. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a good voice for radio?”
She barks a laugh, short and harsh. “Hah! You and just about every other jockey I’ve ran comms for. Skipper said that he’d write me a recommendation letter if I ever went into public broadcasting.”
“I’d write you one, too. So far, you’re already doing a better job than that schlub on <span class="mu-i">David’s Dailies</span>.”
The best part of that statement is that you aren’t even joking. Even if she seems to have differing thoughts.
“Fuck you, that’s not a high bar! Hand to God, Karl Koulter could put a nuclear reactor to sleep.”
“Which’ll make it all the more impressive when you make your debut. You’ll be the audible sweetheart of jarheads and roughnecks all across the belt.”
“Yeah…no. I’ve already got enough shit on my plate without worrying about love letters or weird fanmail. I dunno about you, but I’ve <span class="mu-i">seen</span> what a long-term absence and deprivation of women does to those kinds of guys.”
…she’s not wrong about that either. Things on the Duck got downright...<span class="mu-i">weird</span> whenever the temple of Ishtar was closed.
(cont.)
