The three Bilge-Laminates took another synchronized step forward, their heavy pipe-wrenches splashing black bilge water against the steel manifold.
Mac Cole planted his boots firmly in the knee-deep surge, his brass prosthetic claw locking tight around the neck of his eighteen-inch spanner.
“Don’t move past that yellow stripe,” Julian warned, his voice cutting through the thrum of the diesel pumps. “Keep your boots on this side of the line!”
“Look at the floor,” Mac said, pointing his penlight through the dark water. “Yellow industrial enamel. Submerged under six inches of brine.”
“Form BW-12 protects our perimeter,” Doctor Victor Corvo confirmed, wading up beside Mac with his pocket ledger held dry against his chest. “As long as our shift cards remain active, non-registered legal entities cannot cross the operator’s boundary.”
“You entered Deck C without an authorized work order,” the lead Bilge-Laminate hissed, its jaw unhinging beneath the stiff plastic coating. “Your presence constitutes criminal salvage.”
“We clocked in under Form BW-12 in Anchor Blue,” Julian retorted, holding his chin high. “Shift Thirteen Employee Sanctuary covers every inch of this hull from the derrick crown to the lowest bilge keel.”
“Under Maritime Labor Article Forty-Four,” Corvo added, his clinical tone sharp, “emergency damage control supersedes proprietary clearance during an active hull breach.”
