The Experimental WaterDwellers of the Southern Atlantic

I adjusted my face helmet, pushed the hatch, and went through. The jugs of drinking water were stored in a truck-sized compartment behind the rations dome, and I had only 10 more to load before lunch. I clipped my safety rope to the tanker, grabbed and yanked two large iron ball vessels, freeing them from the hold and locking them into the auto-swimmer. With my freight intact I shoved off with long dolphin kicks down the lead rope as the hauler glided beside me. Only a few more strokes to the large, building-sized bubble of oxygen housing our waterbots and supplies. 

The Living dome was only a short swim away, but I wasn't looking forward to going back. Too much drama lately, I'd rather lay low. I preferred working the gear anyway, counting vessels, calculating efficiencies, noting what to order next and how to organize what was left. 

Working with the Above Sea forces, submitting requests and replenishing the weekly water supply was my main job—assigned or not—and I took it seriously. The others didn't get it, and that was fine, they didn't have to. And screw those lazy seahacks anyway. 

As the Experimental WaterDwellers of the Southern Atlantic, our compound had the added challenge of desalinating the drinking water—after all, not all Dwellers had to worry about that, the freshwater folks had it good. Or at least, we had to deal with it until the new desalinator was installed, which at this rate would be God knows when. By my projections it'd be summer before we even got it underwater, let alone up and running. And I had a feeling I'd have to get involved in that mess, too.

Until then, we were vulnerable. Relying on outside help, and I hated that. It was bad enough everything came from above these days. All parts prefabbed, arriving via ship, a man didn't even need to know how to power weld these days. Our meals all but catered. We ate steak last night—and have you ever seen a single cow in the sea? Pressurized domes so walking was easy, no more foot weights, you might as well be living in the Plaza hotel. Any Joe off the street who could afford their gear was applying. Whatever happened to real sea skills? Reasons to submerge? Radical self-reliance? 

Things would be better once we proved viability—six more months, seven tops. Then I could surface and ditch these basic boring sea squats and change settlements, somewhere clearer, with more colorful fish. Further north, in the Caribbean. Or, maybe all the way up, to the poles, the Greenland compound, I heard it's pretty wild up there. I missed that life, the real stuff. The gruff, hard-drinking rogues, salty as fuck, but at least they know what they're doing. They work hard for their keep. Don't make excuses, don't dodge chores. Feel just fine bending the "rules"—while still following basic decency and protocol. 

South of Bogota experiments were hardly that anymore. So little being learned. Groundbreaking progress in habitat terra-forming, my ass. These days it was more like "extended subsidized holiday." Was I really the only one who cared enough about our theoretical survival to refill the water tanker for the 100th time, even after a full day of running solar floats? 

I shut the hatch, locked it, adjusted my helmet, and vowed that next time the whole lot would just go thirsty.