The slate pinged again. Coordinates bloomed across the screen. Not the gas giant’s upper atmosphere. Not the wreckage. A deep, geosynchronous lock on a fissure at the bottom of the southern methane sea.
She turned the slate toward him. Mercer’s face, usually a slab of unreadable stone, flickered with something raw. Fear. Ccg 8.1.4
“Sundog,” he whispered. His voice was sand over gravel. “You took your time.” The slate pinged again
“Captain—”
Elara sat in the command chair. The data chip felt like a loaded gun in her pocket. usually a slab of unreadable stone
