Shore Leave: Hiver hats and snorkels

Bridge of the Morrigan, Torpol system, the Trojan Reach

The world below shimmered like a promise no one intended to keep. Oceans gleamed under clean sunlight. Distant storm lines scrawled across the horizon like calligraphy. The pleasure ports flickered faintly along the equator, bright clusters of colour bobbing like a carnival that refused to drown.

Caitlin leaned back in the pilot’s chair, sipping from a coffee mug. She was halfway through verifying the next jump parameters when the comm panel chirped.

“Welcome to Torpol, proud jewel of the Trojan Reach! Take a break, catch a breeze, and discover the twenty-one Pleasure Ports waiting just for you. Dive into Diver’s Dreamland! Relax at Twosome Tranquility! Unplug at the Elder’s Enclave!”

A dozen brochure feeds bloomed across the display. Unnaturally perfect beach shots, holographic dolphins, and unsettlingly attractive humans pretending to sip drinks without spilling them.

Caitlin squinted. “Oh no! That’s aggressively tempting.”

She massaged her temples. “Six bloody Jumps. And two more to go. One jump drive tantrum. Three close calls with pirates. I deserve a hammock and several very irresponsible drinks.”

After barely a second's hesitation, she reached for the internal comms.

“Attention, crew of the Morrigan. This is your captain speaking. We are no longer proceeding straight to Tech-World. We are now officially on shore leave.”

From the corridor, Maltz emerged like a furry ghost of grievance. His temporary mechanical arm was still wrapped in silver foil. It made sad squeaking noises as it moved.

“You promised,” he said, tone absolutely martyred. “Straight to Tech-World. You even said no detours whatsoever.”

“This isn’t a detour. It’s on our way. Besides, the ship needs maintenance.”

“Yes,” he snapped, “but I thought you meant no delays.”

“I’ve been in a metal box with you, Quinn, and bloody Cathbad for over six weeks. I no longer feel anything. Except the desperate urge to swim in crystal clear water and judge strangers from a lounger.”

Quinn appeared behind Maltz, datapad in hand. "Captain," he said evenly. "I must note that extended jump travel correlates strongly with irritability, decreased interpersonal tolerance, and at least seventy documented incidents of multiple murders."

Caitlin pointed at him with her mug. “See? Even Quinn here thinks we need a break.”

Quinn nodded. “I have conducted a brief analysis of crew stress indicators. Conclusion: someone is going to be spaced if we do not disembark. I recommend at least six days of structured debauchery.”

Maltz blinked. “Structured debauchery?”

“It improves digestion,” Quinn said.

Maltz tried a new tactic. “I’m suffering.”

“You’ve been playing sad sea shanties over the intercom for two jumps. Your arm works. You programmed it to serve whisky. You are not suffering.”

“It leaks.”

“So do you,” she said, grabbing the comm. “Torpol Highport, this is the Morrigan requesting docking. We’re here for... all of it.”

---

The Highport squatted in orbit like a bureaucrat in a beach chair - all grey concrete, exposed conduits, and the faint smell of recycled disappointment. Its corridors were wide enough for cargo haulers but lined with flickering holo-posters desperately pretending it was part of the fun.

Every wall was festooned with glossy, looping images of the paradise below. Coral reefs shimmered. Happy couples jet-skied into sunsets. Somewhere, dolphins laughed, probably at the tourists.

Scattered between the dreamscapes, Provost Falx, the highport administrator, beamed down from a hundred holo-screens, his bright orange robes positively radiant, his tiny golden fez bobbing in sync with whatever language he’d been set to that hour. In one ad, he lounged sideways in a beach chair wearing mirrored sunglasses and swimwear, raising a fruity drink with a conspiratorial wink. Another showed him in a hover-hammock, gesturing to a distant sunset as if he personally scheduled it.

“Welcome to radiant, reputable, ridiculous Torpol,” he smiled. “Where the drinks are colder, the sun warmer, and we are all deeply invested in your satisfaction.”

“His fez even has a small model of the starport on top of it,” observed Caitlin. “I love it!”

They approached the customs check. Quinn presented a sheaf of documents. Maltz tried, and failed, to look dangerous. One of the drones scanned Caitlin and her moon bear charm and beeped uncertainly before moving on.

Fifteen minutes and three sarcastic health forms later, they stood at the designated shuttle gate, staring at a vessel painted in violently optimistic colours and emblazoned with “Torpol’s Tide Tours!™ – The Sea’s The Limit!”

The shuttle door opened with a dramatic hiss and a blast of tinny steel drum music.

A voice chirped from the cabin speakers: “Welcome aboard your orbital transition experience! Please fasten your belts, adjust your expectations, and prepare for the aquatic adventure of a lifetime!”

Caitlin slid into a seat by the viewport. “If this thing plays another jingle, I’m hijacking it and flying us myself.”

Maltz buckled in with the resigned air of someone heading to his own surprise party. “I hope you all get sand in your everything.”

“Attitude like that,” Caitlin said, “you’re getting two umbrellas in your drink.”

Quinn was already checking the shuttle’s safety readouts: “I advise against consuming any garnish. There is a known issue with the maraschino cherries.”

Cathbad’s voice filtered in from the Morrigan’s commlink:

“I shall keep the ship from harm, sabotage, and excessive metaphor in your absence. Do bring me back something nice and shiny.”

The shuttle peeled away from the highport, jolting as it dipped into the clouds and descended toward the sunlit sprawl of pleasure ports below. The ocean shimmered, calling. Tinny music gave way to a too-cheerful voice welcoming everyone once again to “the vibrant jewel of the Trojan Reach.”

Caitlin grinned. “Right then. Vacation starts now.”

Then the passengers started talking.

Behind Caitlin, three off-duty marines in tropical tank tops argued about whose biceps got more likes on TroopNet. One drank protein gel straight from the pouch and flexed every time turbulence hit.

To her left, would-be influencers filmed themselves in increasingly elaborate poses. One rehearsed a “spontaneous” reaction for her Diver’s Dreamland montage. Maltz kept leaning into frame at the last second, holding increasingly unflattering snacks.

Up front, a couple with four kids under ten were losing the battle. One child shrieked about a poop jellyfish. Another flung glowing sand across the aisle. It hit Quinn square in the chest.

Quinn looked down at the sparkling mess. Then back at the child.

“Interaction acknowledged,” he said. “Retribution protocol... suppressed.”

Maltz groaned. “If one more human mentions their ‘journey of inner transformation,’ I’m starting a riot.”

“Please wait until we land,” Caitlin said cheerfully. “I want to be officially on vacation before I’m named in the incident report.”

She stretched and slid her sunglasses on. “Besides, it’s not a proper holiday until someone gets glitter in a surgical implant.”

---

They disembarked at Diver’s Dreamland to the sound of lapping waves, steel drums, and far too many people being loudly enthusiastic about coral.

The shuttle pad was nestled between a floating bar and a gift shop that smelled aggressively of pineapple. Caitlin stepped onto the causeway in her bikini, flip-flops, and smug aura of victory.

Maltz followed, squinting at the ocean like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“I don’t trust anything that vast and unscheduled,” he muttered.

“It’s a sea, Maltz. It’s been here for billions of years.”

“So have cave bacteria.”

Despite his protests, he followed her to the designated “Welcome Splash Zone,” where resort staff encouraged arrivals to take a “ceremonial dip” in the shallow lagoon.

Caitlin dove in like a fish returning to crime. Quinn removed his boots, stepped in precisely ankle-deep, and immediately started cataloguing microbial content.

Maltz, with a look of resigned suffering, waded in after them. Waist-deep. Tail flicking.

For two seconds, he seemed fine.

Then a small fish darted past.

Maltz yelped, flailed, and attempted to scramble backward through a floating ring buoy. He ended up wedged in it like a sea-drenched donut.

Caitlin surfaced nearby, blinking salt from her eyes.

“You alright there, Captain Seafoam?”

“I hate this planet.”

---

After drying off and diplomatically declining a complimentary sea cucumber, Caitlin wandered toward the gift shop, towel slung around her neck and salt still glittering in her hair. The shop was a riot of inflatable dolphins, cocktail-scented sunscreen, and souvenirs made from shells, regret, and questionable taste.

Then she saw it.

Front and center on a rotating display mannequin: a floppy, purple Hiver-shaped sunhat, complete with oversized fake sensory stalks and dangling limbs.

Caitlin stopped cold.

Maltz, still towelling his ears, muttered, “What now?”

She pointed. Slowly. Reverently.

“That. It’s absurd. I need it!”

Maltz followed her gaze. “Absolutely not.”

Caitlin was already heading to the counter.

Quinn glanced between them, then noted aloud, “The hat is rated UV-proof. Also hydrophobic. Only mildly flammable.”

“Got it!” Caitlin said, returning moments later with the hat on her head and a look of triumph normally reserved for successful revolutions.

Maltz stared. “You look like a science mascot that flunked out of art school.”

She adjusted it with pride. “I look amazing. This hat has vibes. You’ll see. The locals will respect me. Hivers will fear me.”

A child walked by, stared at her hat, and immediately burst into delighted applause.

Caitlin tilted her head graciously and marched toward the cocktail kiosk like a conquering queen. The hat bobbed with authority.

---

They stayed six days. Mostly.

They watched waldo Orca wrestling and took Dolphin language classes. Caitlin flirted with every surf instructor she met. Maltz disapproved loudly from a beach chair, surrounded by gadget parts and sunblock samples he insisted were “for calibration.” Quinn wore swim trunks and a wide-brimmed hat and spent most of his time ankle-deep in the surf, observing jellyfish migration patterns with the solemnity of a war crimes tribunal.

Caitlin won a limbo contest she didn’t remember entering. They took a glass-bottom boat tour that ended with her singing sea shanties into a snorkel. Maltz got stung by something technically extinct and sulked for hours. Quinn took samples. And, of course, provided a diagram.

The hat survived. So did they. Barely.

By day six, the resort staff knew Caitlin by name, Maltz by complaint, and Quinn by the low drone of his biosample scanner.

There was talk of extending the stay. Maltz objected and waved his improvised cybernetic arm accusingly. Quinn cited operational schedules. Caitlin offered bribes that escalated from cocktail vouchers to naming rights on the next spatial anomaly.

It didn’t work.

“Two more hours,” she lamented, dragging her feet toward the shuttle pad. “Just two. I didn’t even finish the second daiquiri menu.”

Maltz shook his head. “You scheduled surfing lessons with a man named Torpedo Dave. It was time.”

“The man has wisdom,” she snapped. “And abs.”

They reached the shuttle, sunburnt and mildly sticky, just in time for boarding. Next stop: Tech-World.

Caitlin sighed, adjusted her floppy Hiver hat and looked longingly back at the beach. “They haven’t seen the last of me. Or this hat.”