Ooh, thanks for the ask. Been a while since I worked on it, gotta find something fun:
Thirty feet below, her pencil drops into the water. It had been a gift from her father when she was given command of her submarine—the wood painted a royal blue, her name engraved in gold letters. She’s not getting it back. Her notes drift in the air, catching a gust of wind and fluttering back, tantalizingly close, before the same capricious gusts whip it away sternward and out of her grasp for good.
You’d think a captain would be good at the sea. You’d think a captain would have learned that the Neris was going to buck under her feet and might have held on a little tighter.
You’d goddamn well think.
Poor Raina is trying her best to run a submarine, and she's never very successful.
Irene picks up the phone from the wall. “I submitted a request to unlist this number with the FCC,” she drawls, rolling her eyes, “so if you’re a salesperson don’t bother-“
“I need to speak to Captain Strider,” snaps the man on the other end.
“Oh you do, do you? Well, as happy as I am to pass the ardor of any and all phone calls on to her, you haven’t given me a name or a reason to trust you yet,” she answers, matching his tone as she tosses the receiver to her other shoulder. “Most people lead with that, you know, because it’s considered polite.”
Evidently, her companion is less interested in small talk than she is. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
“No, that’s the problem, see.”
If the phone could melt from the force of anger channeled through it, a puddle of red plastic would be forming on the floor. “Commander, Naval Submarine Forces,” he growls, “which means I oversee every goddamn submarine in the Western Hemisphere!” he roars. “If I am not speaking to Captain Strider in ten seconds I will make sure that you never come within three miles of another ship in your life! Your disrespect will not be tolerated!”
Irene nods, eyes glossing over until he finishes shouting. “I think he wants to talk to you,” she says flatly, holding out the phone to Raina.
“I know.” She takes it with a sigh. “Hi, dad.”
I couldn’t decide which part of this interaction I liked most so have all of it
[image description: a blue outline of a sunken submarine. Overlaid text reads “Midnight Salvage”. End description]
Hi! So I’m getting back into Midnight Salvage (this time in an episodic format), and I’m trying to figure out who’s interested! Below is the tag list I used for the original posts—since that was a few months ago, please let me know if you’re still interested and if you wanted to be added/removed!
This also serves as a re-introduction of sorts, so here’s the summary and updated crew roster:
Raina Strider is the captain of the Minerva—the smallest operational nuclear submarine, assigned to research and recovery operations on the seafloor. But she has to prove it, too. And between bickering crew members, malfunctioning equipment, and secretive military missions, that might be easier said than done...
I think I’ve fleshed out this project to the point of making an introduction, so...welcome to Midnight Salvage!
Raina Strider is the newly-promoted captain of the Minerva - the smallest nuclear-powered submarine in the fleet, assigned to research and recovery operations on the seafloor. Hers is a ship of rules and regulations, running off the codes and manuals - until, one day, those rules no longer apply.
For something waits in the shipwrecks, lost long ago and never expected to rise again. Something pulled from the mud and sand by an unsuspecting claw, brought into the harsh lights of Irene Wolf’s laboratory. And in the searchlights, in the glare of her instruments, it begins to wake...
Cast:
Raina Strider (she/her): Captain of the Minerva and dedicated to the rules - there’s no room to make mistakes in a submarine, not when one could send them all to the bottom of the ocean. (Also slightly insecure about her position as the captain, and so her strictness is a way of compensating, but don’t mention that)
Irene Wolf (she/her): Science officer, or what she would call a “glorified data-puncher” on the sub. She’s not particularly happy about her posting, nor is she shy about expressing that. Constantly treading the line of what Strider will tolerate, because Wolf is good at what she does - but infuriating all the same.
Erin Herschel (they/them): The cheery pilot/navigator of the submarine, who responds to almost any situation - good or bad or catastrophic - with a sort of resigned acceptance. An attitude that will be put to the test...
Kallias Azia (he/him): Salvage claw operator and junior scientist, who most certainly does not share Wolf’s worldview but hangs on her every word, willing to do almost anything to find her favor.
Ryu Mäkinen (zie/zir): The enigma (and field engineer) of the submarine, whom no-one, not even those working with zir, know anything about besides zir job. Just that good at sidestepping personal questions, although zie’ll politely deny it if you ask.
Osvaldo “Ozzie” Setebos (he/him): Doctor, chef, and longest-serving member of the Minerva, he knows all the stories of the ship, although who knows if he’s telling the truth?
Tag list (it’s a new story, so let me know if you want to be added or removed for this): @lady-redshield-writes, @no-url-ideas-tho, @ratracechronicler, @ken-kenwrites, @ravenpuffwriter, @cirianne, @lonelylibrary @maxbeewriting, @endlesshourglass, @thebloodstainedquill, @note-katha , @dreamwishing, @incandescent-creativity, @fatal-blow, @danafaithwriting, @wri-tten, @writingwhithotchocolate, @katekyo-bitch-reborn, @klywrites and @dogwrites!
this story requires knowing more about submarines than I ever expected to, including how they communicate (fun fact! it’s difficult, and I may have to pick some experimental technology in order to get the depths I want)
but, at least cool diagrams?
The Minerva is based on the NR-1 submarine (which these are diagrams for) - a small, nuclear-powered military and research submarine. However, since the NR-1 was built in the 1970s, and...technology’s improved since then, there are some significant upgrades made:
More space for the crew to move and work in, including an actual kitchen and laboratory
Less motion sickness for surface movement
Higher power nuclear reactor, allowing for better electronics and faster movement
The name Minerva is a combination of a few factors - the NR-2 designation, and some similarities of its reactor to those found in NERVA rocket engines, giving it the nickname “Mini NERVA”, and eventually, Minerva
A small story, featuring the main two of Midnight Salvage, for Friday Night Fights by @promptsforthestrugglingauthor !
“Come on,” Raina insists, trying to pull her into the cornfield. “It’s going to be fun!” Fun is one word for it, at least, along with ‘tiring’ and ‘legally-required-team-building-exercise’.
Irene raises an eyebrow, plucking a leaf from a cornstalk and tearing it into two. “I don’t understand what can be fun about being trapped in a field of corn,” she says, in a voice so flat that it better replicates Kansas than the cornfield itself. “At least…we won’t starve to death, I guess? Can we eat this?”
The yellowed, sun-dried husks rising in walls around them certainly don’t look appetizing, especially not in the harsh red light of the sunset. “…I don’t know,” she says, “but it’s getting dark and we still have to find our way through.”
“We don’t have to,” she points out. “The car is right there-“
“Irene.”
She rolls her eyes, pushing past her and into the maze. “Fucking fine.” Her boots, designed for steel gantries and salt-encrusted hulls, crunch on the sand and dirt. “So, captain, my captain, which way do we go? Right or left?”
Right or left? This is what the team-building part is, isn’t it? She has to make decisions—the same decisions she’ll have to make as captain, standing on deck and calling the shots. Not right or left then, no. Not decisions that will cost them only time as soon as they find a dead end, but decisions that could be life or death, and…she’s overthinking this, isn’t she?
“Left,” she says, pointing down the path that looks identical to its counterparts. “The maze is designed as the Submarine insignia - left should take us to the edge, and then we can wrap towards the middle…”
She doesn’t move, brushing a hand through the stalks and prying them apart. “It’s corn, Strider. Not metal. Plants that bend and break and most importantly-“ She steps off the trail, crushing one of the stalks beneath her feet with a crackle- “let us through.”
It can’t be that easy—it’s the oldest game, breaking through the corn maze. “We…shouldn’t.”
“Come on,” Irene growls, forcing another step into the wall. “Of course we’re not supposed to. But who’s going to goddamn care? You think—ouch—you think Rickover was in the right when he put dead fucking mice above the NR-1 just to shout at the inspectors? Course not,” she answers, cutting Raina off, “but here we are talking about it.”
Well. Captains are supposed to find innovative solutions, aren’t they? This is one of them. (One hell of a justificative stretch, she’s aware, but screw it—what are they going to do, court-martial her over a corn maze? Oh God they might-) “You cut through it, though.”
She grins, pulling a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. “It’s lucky I came prepared, then.”
It’s a slow path, but maybe that’s just because she can feel every cornstalk as it brushes past, sometimes catching in the fabric of her shirt and forcing her to pluck it off. Still, it’s faster than the maze, than the badge she turns over in her hand, tracing the intricate lines that wrap around the metal.
A few birds wheel overhead, their cries intermingling with the snik of the knife.
Until something rustles in the corn.
“What was that?” she asks, checking behind her. Nothing there but the cut stalks of corn—a clear track, leading right to them. “I heard….I don’t know…”
“No, I heard it too.” She lowers the knife, leaving a plant half sawn-through. “But it could be anything, couldn’t it? Lots of things like eating corn. Lots of things would come into a cornfield…at night…in a fenced-off area…that will have been controlled for animals…” Only as her voice trails off does Raina notice how dark it’s gotten, how the clouds above block out the stars.
The bright light of a flashlight—rated for 50 meters underwater, but it won’t help them—shines on nothing. “Not good. It’s not good.”
“So what do we do? We could turn back, or keep going and hope it doesn’t come this way.” No snappy retorts, no bitter invoking of the word captain. Just hands that, though she tries to hide it, shake as they hold the knife.
Their assignment is to get to the center of the maze, and get there first. To find whatever’s there, whatever will cement their—her—reputation in the fleet.
Her job is to keep her crew alive. “Go back,” she says, letting the beam of light reach back, along their footsteps and the debris that will give anything out there near-signposted directions. Her belt feels too light, now, missing the one (1) pistol allowed on a submarine and handed to the captain at the start of every mission.
“I don’t like this,” Irene mutters behind her, making her wince every time the crack of a corn husk echoes around them. “Not going to say ‘I told you so’, Strider, but…if we get out of this fucking maze-“
Another snap, ringing through the night like a gunshot and she can’t take it anymore. “Stop!” she whispers, flashlight dancing around Irene’s face. “I don’t—please, can you try and walk a little quieter? Please?”
She shakes her head slowly. “That wasn’t me.”
They freeze, expressions mirroring each other—eyes wide, scanning to either side, searching, looking for the creature they know is out there but hope desperately not to find. A distant, rhythmic sound ripples through the cornstalks, the dun-DUN, dun-DUN, shot through and surrounded by the snap of corn, of something loping towards them.
Words take too long. They run, losing all pretense of stealth as they push out onto the path again, flashlight dancing crazily between the sky and the ground. On the path again, but it won’t stop, it doesn’t stop, the crackling replaced with the scratch of metal on cement, scraping away the dirt laid there.
“What the fuck is that?” Irene shouts, risking a glance behind her. “That’s not—that can’t-“
She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t look—it’s faster than them, but they don’t need to outrun it forever, they just need to get to the car first and they’re safe, it can’t break through the steel-
Irene stumbles to a stop, panting for breath, as the road forks in front of them. One way leads back to the parking lot, back to safety. The other—she never even noticed the other, never noticed that there were two directions. “Which - which way do we go?” she asks, looking frantically between them.
One way to safety. Two ways to go. “Where do we go?” she repeats, voice rising to a fever pitch. “Right or left?”
