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COMMS
Comms are pretty much what they sound like: communication
devices. The perk is that they're really small, only a couple inches
long and wearable, like my Great-Aunt Trudy's peacock lapel pin.
They've also got some extremely smart technology hidden inside. I just
have to say the name of the person I want to talk to and, assuming he
or she's in range, I'm hooked up instantly. And if I want a conference
call with all of Moya's crew? No problem. (No voicemail service, though. Have to work on that.)
The comms are even pretty good at sensing when a conversation is over
— maybe by analyzing vocabulary or voice stress, or just by noticing
that I'm not talking anymore — and shutting down the connection. Spares
me the enormous time and effort of hanging up.
Our comms are Moya-generated, so they function most reliably on or in proximity to our trusty Leviathan.
They work well across moderate distances, too — except when they're
being jammed by unusual radiation or hostile aliens, which, frankly,
happens far too often. If that happens, or if the person you want to
talk to is out of range, you don't get even a "no cellular service"
signal. You get just ... nothing. And that, believe me, is never a good sign.
JOURNEY LOG REFERENCES
Season of Death
Crichton Kicks
Lava's a Many Splendored Thing
Promises
I Shrink, Therefore I Am
STARBURST TO ANY NOTE
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