Reed pulls a laminated card. It is uglier than it looks, a brick of habits. “Near-neutral means Minnow hangs in the pool without climbing the tethers or sagging like a tired dog. You don’t have to memorize the density of seawater to respect it. You do have to notice when the sled wants the floor.”

The trim lights are the color of old mustard. Heavy.

Reed shows you the pump without rushing you through it: intake, filter, slow fill of the variable tank, a number you would feel in your palm if the hull were smaller. “Dropping emergency weights is a last song, not a first. Dumping habitat tanks is how you visit weather you cannot crane through.”

The radio: Vargas, tighter now. “I need an aquanaut who can still do fractions.”

Reed glances at the clock and at you. “We can tick Minnow to near-neutral in two minutes. Or you can tell yourself heavy is grip, because heavy feels serious. Serious is not a measurement.”

Reed tips their head at the colored valves. “Those are for tanks I name out loud. If you ever hear me say ‘port variable, flood slow,’ you may touch the blue. Until then, they are scenery.”

You smell a faint clean tang, like the inside of a new cooler. The moon pool whispers. Paz is still a quiet can somewhere in a field of chimneys.