I know, it’s a very bad pun. Sue me. This month’s story, by the way.
Gulf Coast
1983
The mermaid wore a bikini top and a hair scrunchie, although she was one of the ones that needed the latter more than the former. Both drylander products were ostentatiously colored in red, white, and blue; she also wore copper dog tags, showing her rank as corporal. Well, corporal-equivalent. Technically, she was just another member of the Auxiliaries. Practically, when she saluted me I returned it precisely like I would for a dryland US Marine. Best to begin as you mean to go, and all that.
“You’re the Lt. Commander Cook, yes?” The mermaid’s English was fluent, smoothly rich, and slightly tinged with a Gulf Coast accent. “I’m the Corporeal Twenty-Seven-Bravo-Niner. Pleased to meet you, ma’am: I’m here to escort you to the Colonel.”