[h2]The Snake Pit[/h2] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qEZu58W.jpg[/img][/center] [i][b]“Thank you for calling Ogilvy-Norton Seaborne Logistics. Due to the tragic loss of NS Eileen McSorley, we’re not responding to any inquiries by media or trade related interests. If you’re a relative of one of the McSorley crew, we are contacting those family members listed as emergency contacts with further information. If you haven’t been called, please leave your name and cortex ident. A bereavement representative will contact you shortly.”[/b][/i] [i]Bereavement representative.[/i] The corporate approach to admitting that all hands were lost. Another hard truth in a day full of hard truths. Everyone he knew aboard...Chrissy, Chief Edwards, Martinez… With no other options offered, Yuri left his name and employee number on the recording. He was quickly rewarded by a breathless young man who called back to transfer him to “Senior Leadership.” He recognized DeVillers, VP of Engineering, the moment his image popped onscreen. A craggy face, pockmarked by a ferocious bout of teenage acne, from which protruded a narrow hawk’s beak of a nose. He hadn’t done himself any favors in the matters of appearance, choosing close cropped hair that stood up to reveal a prominent widow’s peak. The man wasn’t here to win congeniality contests; his rise to Ogilvy-Norton’s hierarchy was the result of two key factors, the first being an encyclopedic knowledge of each vessel in their fleet. The second happened to be the absence of his right leg, literally gnawed off by the drive cams of a propeller shaft. He opened with his trademark move, presenting the harsh profile before turning to deliver a withering rebuke. “You know,” DeVillers began, “it takes a really sick fuck to go masquerading as...Antonov?” The tough features softened for the slimmest of moments before eyebrows came together in accusation. “What happened?” “The hurricane,” Yuri answered his superior. “We were taking water. Lost a vent, lost a primary pump. From then, we couldn’t equalize.” “The Moncrief’s captain reported you lost all radar and nav aids...your radio, too.” “That’s true,” Yuri gave a solemn nod. “The wind rolled a lifeboat over the wheelhouse roof. Engineer’s Mate Stephens and I went up…” “How much water?” the older man demanded. “At oh six hundred, it was knee deep in the raceways,” the younger answered. “Chief was pretty certain we had water in the hold as well.” De Villers’ eyes narrowed. “How?” “The eight fathom shoal,” Yuri answered. “Chief Edwards thinks...thought... we hogged.” “Listen to me,” the executive pressed toward his screen. “You are still an employee of Ogilvy-Norton. As such, you are to discuss the sinking with no one, from the press, to your friends and family, to the dockyard whores. Do you understand?” “I do.” “I’ll send a shuttle for you. Where are you?” “I’m in the black,” Yuri said. “Headed for Greenleaf.” “Come again?” Hardened eyes grew more accusatory Yuri could make out the vein as it pulsed and grew between DeVillers’ eyebrows. “The boat that rescued me has a schedule to keep. They agreed to drop me on Greenleaf…” “The name?” “What?” “The boat,” De Villers cut in tersely. “What’s the name?” On any other day, the mechanic would take the executive’s brusque nature as [i]Trademark DeVillers...a pinch of arrogance, a dash of impatience, and a full litre of Húndàn.[/i] But there was something new here, stirring behind the man’s eyes like a serpent, coiled to strike. There was danger in those deliberate eyes…suddenly, he found himself not feeling quite so forthcoming. “Sorry, sir,” he answered with a touch to the bandage on his forehead. “I’m sure they told me, but...their doctor says I have a concussion. I’ll ask her when she returns.” DeVillers checked his watch. “You can’t be more than ten-twelve hours out. I’ll have people waiting.” His glare seemed to reach across the distance. “Remember, Antonov, not one word.” The channel disconnected, leaving Yuri a blank screen. “People,” he whispered to the silent shuttle. Ogilvy-Norton had just lost a great many people, not to mention a sizeable asset. And here he was, a surviving mechanic who not only knew the corners they’d cut, but had documented his concerns. Damned right they’d send [i]people.[/i] He tried to add up his options, a pursuit that yielded virtually nothing. He only had his clothes, wherever they’d got to. He had no money. The ident card that’d access his account was on the bottom. Banged up and bandaged as he was, Yuri conjured himself a slow moving quarry with a bright neon target on his back. Easy picking for DeVillers’ [i]people.[/i] He’d tapped half the sequence before realizing just who was being waved. Yuri paused. One last look at his dwindling options provided little solace. DeVillers was a viper, all rattle and coil as he prepared to strike. [i]But this,[/i] he thought to himself as the com sequence glowed before him, [i]is throwing myself upon the mercy of a python.[/i] He thumbed the ‘send’ icon, wishing all the while to awaken and find himself clinging to that table on the ocean. “Wrong connect,” the young woman said, before her eyes widened. “Yuri? Is that...what happened to you?” “Hi, Katka,” he managed a weak smile. “Is he in?” Her voice lowered. “He’s in his negotiation room. Won’t be too happy if I disturb him.” “Tell him I survived the Eileen McSorley’s sinking,” he replied. “That should pique his interest.” The image changed, revealing the familiar crest to Yuri as Katka rushed to alert her boss. [i]I can still hang up,[/i] he thought fitfully. His finger moved, hesitant above the ‘disconnect’ icon… “Yuri Antonov!” The face, though aged to begin with, seemed frozen in time. Sharp eyes sparkled through horn rimmed glasses as a grin of predatory delight lit up the man’s features. “It has been such long time!” he exclaimed in high pitch. “Your mother is speaking of you always!” Yuri forced a smile. “Hello, Mr. Niska.”