Thirty-Six
Returning through the underwater tunnel took not enough time, and forever.
The suit kept up its irritating arhythmic bleeps about damaged telemetry and immersion, but I kept my attention on moving forward. Strands of bioluminescent blue algae gleamed everywhere. Dull dying smears marked where I’d stepped on the trip out. I had survived my feet touching those spots on the way out, so my training insisted I try to step in those same spots on the way back.
Turns out crushed algae is almost frictionless. Only buoyancy and water resistance kept me from landing on my butt.
My suit still smelled of sweat and garlic. But most of all, the bright old-copper taste of fear filled my mouth.
Concentrating on finding different rocks to stand on chained the fear back. Each step demanded I
