RUET Undersea

The external camera array wasn't meant to be mucked with anyway, hence the lack of handholds or a simple plug-mount. The designers had sworn up and down on how it would never need to be serviced. The lens had self-cleaning filters; a proximity sensor and shutter to guard against impacts; replacement lenses which would automatically slip into place. There was one thing the engineers couldn't protect their fancy camera against: the scientist. Apparently, they decided the camera didn't record enough of the spectrum, and had a new one designed, built and sent down.

A short grunt and the panel locked into place. "Rome Two. Sys Go. Hatch Brav Ope," came the terse commands from his comset: another low quality piece of technology he had to deal with. Anywhere else on the planet you could use a cheap radio running off a few nine-volt cells, down here you had to scrimp. The phonetic alphabet got cut to single syllables (as did most common words), the being verbs got dropped, and a thick (and hard to memorize) code book had replacements for pretty much anything.

The Biomechanic Gills however were barely short of a miracle, if only in comparison to the rest of the base's technology. They replaced all the clumsy diving gear, letting you swim underwater perfectly free: no air tanks, no suits, just the gills and a pair of flippers. Pressure was unimportant while wearing them, and in some longer trials, testers found you could swim fasters and with less effort as time went by. If it wasn't for the enforced time limits (and the work needed inside) he could stay out all day.

Flipping the make-shift cover up, he triggered the hatch (some of the gilled-dolphins had figured out the system once and nearly flooded part of the facility, hence the hastily installed covers). You could never tell with those creatures: playful puppy one moment, loyal dog another, scheming fox the next.

An indicator light switched on and the hatch door released. A minute and the cycle completed leaving him dryer and inside. The gills were uncomfortable when not submerged and created a choking sensation. A few drops of liquid around the gills contacts solved that problem, letting them slide easily off.

As he returned the equipment, a slight tremor shook the room. The computer display lit up, showing a silhouette of the base--much like the one burned into his mind thanks to its prolific use--with red lights scattered over the left portion. A quick tap on the side-bar brought up a preliminary damage report, along with a message requesting all dive units to lend assistance.

The camera installation had been mostly twisting with little physical exertion, and more time out swimming was always welcome. Strapping on a new set of gills--the initial discomfort slightly less this time--he sent the hatch back into its cycle.

His throat was still sore; "gill fatigue" was the term used. Other crewmembers had told him about it, but this was the first time experiencing it for himself. He had used up all one hundred and seventy-five minutes of his time limit with the gills and now was paying for it. The repair work was continuing and he was left terribly useless: most of the others could use the gills for five or six hours--not counting the safety margins.

He crunched a handful of peanuts: pretty much all that was available in the mess, even the cook could use the gills longer. One other person shared the hall with him: the communications officer. He wasn't a bad person, just...odd. Mainly, he had wrangled a few bits of each day's fish catch to make his own sushi (not that the cook minded, one less mouth the feed after all), and freely shared it--collecting the reactions of others to raw fish on rice. Might as well join him, the normal meals wouldn't be available for a few hours.

He took a small nibble off the sushi--food just shouldn't come in such black and white colors--to the slightly disapproving look of the officer, apparently small bites weren't the accepted method. The stuff wasn't bad, though the rice seemed a bit out of place. He relaxed and passed a few comments about. It wasn't until he had left that he realized it; he had matched the officer piece for piece.

He was still left with a few hours until the 'doc had scheduled him, so he wandered down to the pens. The lights went to full brightness a moment after he entered. The reason was soon apparent: one of the dolphins was inside, nose against the dimmer switch.

The base had started out with eight dolphins, trained and equipped with the gills--only three remained. Four had vanished completely, while another had a tendency to leave for a week, and then show up like nothing had happened. They had tried a tracking transponder once, but dolphins were too damn clever: the transponder showed up nested in-between a couple of water-temperature monitors.

Noticing the dolphin's greeting sign, he slipped into the shallow pool and moved his hands into the countersign gesture. Soreness and fatigue vanished with the immersion. He moved into the query gestures; anything to prolong the relaxing swim.

Steam, rocks figured largely into it, but the responses rapidly became too complex to follow with the simplified language. He pulled a set of biomechanical gills from a shelf--surely a few minutes wouldn't hurt. They slipped into place easily; the normal disorientation and discomfort were beneath notice.

Waiting a few seconds for his senses to adjust, he asked the dolphin to repeat vocally. Any cetologist would be horribly confused by what followed. Thanks to the gills and training, the gilled dolphins had another language at their disposal: a 'speech' that could be fully imitated and heard by a human (provided the human also was using a set of gills).

It still took a long time to complete a conversation: He was only part way through an epic tale of above-average sea-quakes, dislodged debris impacting the base and an unfortunate malfunction in one of the hatches when his chronometer buzzed--15 minutes until the doc wanted to see him. Excusing himself, he replaced the gills. His neck was raw and sore all through his drying; the gentle warm breeze seemed to bite at his exposed skin. With the fan speed at minimum, it was easily tolerated, though it threatened to make him late.

Half a minute left, he unsealed the infirmary hatch. "You've got yourself in a mess this time," the medic had greeted him coldly, "You limit with the gills was 2 hours, 45 minutes. You were out for nearly four."

"I changed gills partway through that though."

*Shhhlllp* the folders smacking against the table were less satisfying than a crack of a fist, "The time limit is for *you*, not the gills. You can't just hijack lungs and expect them to function normally afterwards." The medic scraped together the folders, "Why do you think we tested each of you individually?" He sighed, "The recovery will take a while. Get a good night's sleep; I'll have a heavy regimen of drugs to start you on tomorrow."

Taps, clanks, the occasional screech: highly muffled, but he could hear everyone of them reverberating through the hull--a constant reminder that repairs going on without him. The original cause was still officially undetermined, though most hadn't consulted the dolphins yet.

The monitor still had the status display up, with plenty of red spots remaining. One would wink out from time to time as repairs were made; sometimes a new one came on. It was none of his business for now though, and it vanished with a tap on the switch. Another dimmed the lights for him to sleep, though it wouldn't last long.

The tremor and crash didn't wake him, nor did the harsh red emergency lights. Cold salt water applied to the face however did. He swallowed a mouthful, somehow escaping the gagging taste, before attaining full consciousness. The water was a good 10 inches deep, though the room's tilt brought it up to the bed, and its occupant.

He was in a wetsuit within a minute. The hatch was slightly warped--enough that it no longer sealed--so he bet that the hallway was still mostly dry and pushed it open. Towards his left, an emergency door had triggered, pressing on its diaphragm confirmed his suspicions: the leak had occurred somewhere within the adjacent habitation cluster. No sense in flooding the base further; he splashed down the opposite corridor.

Fate must have been laughing, and Fortune playing with loaded dice. Ideally, each segment of the base should have had 3 exits, usually more. This specific habitation cluster was added as an afterthought...the original design didn't count on a few extra crewmembers or the commandeering of a set of quarters to hold a damaged sonar array. One hatch connected into the rest of the habitation modules--the flooded one. The second hatch connected to an added storage module. It would have been a workable route--if someone hadn't placed a 400-pound auxiliary generator there. As for the third, someone had linked it to the main facility via a giant extending tube to follow the letter of the law. In this case though, something resembling a drier vent didn't seem like a safe path; the thin walls had been patched twice already.

The final option was the exterior hatches. "Outside I can survey the damage and possibly start repairs...Even if the rest of the base is in similar shape, I can always get in through the dolphin pen...There's a habitation module that's flooding, that's definitely a priority...If the damage is significant, this entire module could detach and flood...There's already a lot of water in this module, either the next one down has a serious leak, or this one has a slow leak." Reasoning is so much easier when you already know your decision. He slipped a pair of gills on and pulled the manual hatch release.

A dolphin met up with him before he had swam away from the hatch. No time was wasted on syntax; the dolphin simply indicated 'follow.' The remaining seven--including the AWOL dolphins--were clustered around one of the modules. Emergency-patch kits were floating around the area, held in check by the circling dolphins. Resourceful creatures...those kits were kept locked down pretty well, yet they had at least five of them there and two open.

The repair went amazingly smooth. It seemed his smallest movement resulted in an appropriate tool being slipped into his hand. A tube of luminous ink to locate the smaller fractures, followed up with sealant. For the larger punctures, the dolphins had already placed patch-plates over them. A little work with a chemical welder, a few squirts of sealant and that leak was secured.

The dolphin personality shift surfaced: moving to the next rupture started a game of repair-kit-pong, closely followed by sealant-tube keep-away. Maybe, once he had some free time, he'd try to organize a game of Monkey-in-the-Middle.

The last bits of luminescent ink floated around sedately, though just to be sure he squirted a few more bubbles. They too drifted off with the minor currents. It seemed secure enough; there wasn't much to be gained by second-guessing. From the inside, any leaks would be much more obvious anyway. He pushed away from the new patch, the positions of the various hatches running through his mind.

Suddenly saltwater filled his mouth. Immediately his hands snapped up, searching for damage to his gills. Found it, the right edge had detached at the chin. Pressure wasn't resealing it; he twisted it, releasing a chemical packet. "In an emergency, the chemical release will rapidly increase the bond strength of the gills as well as increase their effectiveness though it will reduce the safe operating duration by 50% or more," the orientation manual stated. He'd have to get that updated: only moments after, the gills completely detached and floated off.

He was much too deep to swim to the surface...most likely, once the pressure resistance effect of the gills worn off the depth would become a greater problem. The nearby habitation module hatches were certainly unserviceable. The dolphin pens would still be open, but they were way too far to swim to. With that thought, he realized he hadn't held his breath...

...but didn't seem to be having any trouble.

The dolphins had split into two groups: four returning to the pens, and four swimming off. The returning dolphins were nearly out of sight, but the others had set a slower pace, one he could keep up with, and he hastened to do so.

Though short in distance, the swim took nearly half an hour at the leisurely pace. Additionally, interruptions were welcome. Once they spooked a school of fish, trapping a few into easy pickings. Much to his surprise, he effortlessly caught one: snatching it between his jaws. A few minutes later a clump of seaweed floated by, starting an impromptu game of catch.

As he prepared to throw it, gauging the mass and cross-section, his fingers beneath grabbed his attention. His improving speed and maneuverability was explained: the skin between fingers was extended nearly two centimeters farther than is should have been. A 'hurry up' vocable suspended his curiosity and he returned to the game.

A shallow cave, or more accurately an odd rock structure full of holes and passages--a construction more apt to be found in a fishbowl--marked their destination. Gill-dolphin ingenuity showed plainly: a few plastic boxes--probably liberated from the pens--held small quantities of fish, a data-display thought lost months ago was weighted down with small rocks.

Over his shoulder, a few of the base strobes still cut through the water...but not worth looking back for.