《Deep Sea Depths》


 The Deep Sea

    The fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous dirge in Silas¡¯s cramped quarters, bouncing off the steel walls and reflecting in his cold, grey eyes. He ignored it, his focus laser-sharp on the salvaged data pad he held. On its cracked screen, a schematic of theLeviathan¡¯s Toothbloomed in fractal detail. A rust bucket. A relic. A freedom.


    TheToothwas his ticket out of the Abyss Colony, a concrete tomb carved into the flank of a geothermally-charged mountain. He¡¯d spent years scavenging, trading, and enduring the endless political squabbles of the Overseers to earn its ownership. It was a history in kelp-encrusted plating and corroded pipes, a testament to a forgotten age when humanity hadn''t surrendered to the crushing pressure of the deep.


    He tapped the screen, accessing the maintenance logs. Hydro-pump efficiency: 67%. Life support: jury-rigged and prone to fluctuation. Hull integrity: cautiously optimistic. Silas¡¯s lips, thin and drawn, barely twitched. Every number was a gamble, a potential failure that could trap him in the black void.


    He meticulously calculated the cost of thorium rods, precious energy currency in this underwater world. He charted potential trade routes between the scattered outposts clinging to the resource-rich volcanic vents: Elysium, known for its rare-earth elements; Aquilon, a hub for salvaged technology; and the volatile, pirate-infested fringes of the Kraken''s Maw.


    Leaving the Abyss Colony wasn''t just about escaping the Overseers'' suffocating control. It was about autonomy. About choosing his own destiny in a world that offered so little choice.


    Days blurred into weeks as he scrounged for spare parts, bartering favors and risking the wrath of the Colony enforcers. He patched the hull with scavenged bio-plastic sealant, re-wired the navigation system with salvaged cables, and coaxed the ancient fusion engine to sputter back to life.


    Finally, the day arrived. TheLeviathan¡¯s Tooth, a hulking silhouette against the bioluminescent algae farms of the Colony¡¯s outer perimeter, was ready. He stood before the tiny, cramped control panel, the scent of ozone and recycled air thick in his nostrils.


    He activated the comms, his voice cold and devoid of emotion as he addressed the Overseers for the last time. "This is Silas. Departing Abyss Colony. Commencing independent trade operations."


    No reply. He wouldn¡¯t have expected one.


    With a deep breath, he engaged the hydro-thrusters. TheToothshuddered violently as it pulled away from the docking bay, the bioluminescent algae swirling in its wake. Through the reinforced viewport, he watched the Abyss Colony recede into the gloom, its lights fading like dying embers.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    The pressure increased as he descended into the abyssal plain. The darkness pressed in, a tangible force threatening to swallow him whole. He trusted his calculations, his gut, his ruthlessly honed intuition. He was alone.


    He navigated through labyrinthine canyons and past fields of dormant hydrothermal vents, his sensors constantly scanning for threats: rogue submersibles, colossal squid, the ever-present whisper of geological instability.


    The cold, unforgiving hum of the Leviathan''s Tooth was Silas'' constant companion. The metallic tang of recycled air filled the cramped control room, a scent he was rapidly growing accustomed to, if not exactly fond of. He ran a gloved finger over the polished brass plaque above the control panel: "Leviathan''s Tooth - Truth Lies in the Abyss." A grim smile touched his lips. Truth, or profit. For Silas, they were often the same thing.


    His first deep-sea voyage was proving to be exactly as he''d anticipated: isolating. The crushing pressure of the ocean, the endless blackness beyond the reinforced viewport, it pressed in on him. He battled the creeping anxiety by burying himself in the mundane. He''d re-read the maintenance logs for the third time, obsessively checking the efficiency of the oxygen scrubbers. He''d meticulously tracked the fluctuating market prices for rare earth minerals dredged from the hydrothermal vents further down. Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on the sheer, terrifying vastness surrounding him.


    It hadn''t taken long to reach his first destination: the sprawling, prefabricated habitat clinging precariously to a submerged plateau. He navigated the Leviathan''s Tooth cautiously through the designated docking bay, feeling a jolt of nervous energy as he entered the habitat''s outer perimeter. The bustling marketplace, glimpsed through the observation windows, was a chaotic hive of activity. Deep-sea miners, scavengers, and traders mingled with a motley crew of corporate representatives and opportunistic hustlers.


    Silas felt a pang of doubt. He was a novice in this underwater world, a shark in a sea of predators. He brought up the freelance commission board on his console, scrolling through the endless list of opportunities. Salvage missions too dangerous, resource extraction requiring specialized equipment he didn''t possess, deliveries to remote outposts that would strain his thorium rods to their limit. It was a buyer''s market, and he was low on cash and even lower on experience.


    Finally, he spotted something within his reach. A survey mission. Relatively safe, self-contained, and crucially, it paid enough to cover his fuel costs and maybe even a little extra. He accepted the commission, the digital confirmation a small victory in the face of the overwhelming odds.


    "Geological survey of the Hadal Zone, Sector 7," the notification read. "Focus: Identifying potentially unstable methane hydrate deposits. Hazard Level: Moderate." Moderate, Silas thought with a sardonic twist of his lips. Down here, "moderate" could mean anything from a minor cave-in to a catastrophic implosion.


    He plotted the course, double-checking his fuel calculations. The Hadal Zone¡­ the deepest trenches in the ocean floor. A graveyard of lost dreams and shattered hulls. But also, potentially, a goldmine of untapped resources. And for Silas Bellwether, the pursuit of profit always outweighed the fear. He initiated the ballast tanks, feeling the Leviathan''s Tooth begin its slow descent. "Let''s see what secrets you''re hiding, abyss," he muttered into the comms, his voice barely a whisper against the hum of the submarine. "Let''s see if the Leviathan can claim its tooth."

 Survey

    The cold, unforgiving black pressed against the hull of the Marines Ghost, a constant reminder of Silas''s precarious position. He was a speck of humanity adrift in a vast, uncaring ocean, freed from the metal womb of the habitat but tethered to its memory by the very vessel that carried him. The silence was profound, a thick blanket muffling the hum of the Ghost¡¯s engines. It was a silence that both soothed and unnerved, a constant companion in his quest for a life beyond the confines of the underwater colonies.


    He ran his hand over the worn maps spread across the small control panel. They were more than just charts; they were his roadmap to independence, each notation a whispered promise of a different future. He traced the route to his next destination, a smaller, privately owned habitat, its existence a rumour confirmed only by a tattered, salvaged schematic.


    He tried to keep busy. He meticulously checked the ballast tanks, re-calibrated the sonar, even painstakingly cleaned the algae that stubbornly clung to the viewport. Anything to ward off the creeping anxiety that gnawed at the edges of his resolve. He knew the risks. The crushing pressure, the unpredictable currents, the ever-present threat of equipment malfunction. But the alternative, a life dictated by the rigid hierarchy of the habitat, was a fate he simply couldn''t accept.


    Silas had always felt a kinship with the creatures of the deep, the strange, bioluminescent beings that thrived in the darkness. He imagined the Ghost as one of them, a deep-sea leviathan carving out its own existence in the crushing pressure. He would carefully select resting places for the submarine, hidden pockets in the seabed where the currents were calm, where he could conserve power and simply¡­ exist.


    Days blurred into weeks as the Marines Ghost glided through the silent abyss. Silas relied on a strict regimen of recycled protein paste and nutrient supplements, his life stripped down to its bare essentials. He was a hermit in a metal shell, driven by a desperate hope.


    Finally, the sonar pinged, a faint, rhythmic pulse that betrayed the presence of another vessel. Silas gripped the controls, his heart quickening. The rhythmic pulse grew stronger, resolving into multiple signatures. He was approaching the habitat.


    The closer he got, the more intense the activity became. He could differentiate the distinct sound profiles of other submarines, each with its own unique engine signature. He imagined them, sleek and powerful, or perhaps jury-rigged and patched together like the Marines Ghost itself.


    Reaching the habitat felt like stumbling into a bustling underwater port. The sonar painted a vivid picture of docking bays, cargo transfers, and the constant whir of machinery. He felt a pang of nervousness. He had little to offer in trade. His stores were meager, and the Ghost itself was more rust than refinement.


    He hailed the habitat, his voice cracking slightly over the comms. "Marines Ghost requesting permission to dock."


    A gruff voice crackled back. "Marines Ghost? State your business."


    "Seeking trade and... opportunities," Silas replied, trying to project a confidence he didn''t feel.


    After a tense silence, the voice responded, "Dock at Bay Seven. And be prepared to show what you''ve got."


    Silas carefully maneuvered the Ghost into the designated bay. As he secured the submarine, he racked his brain for anything of value. His knowledge of the deep-sea currents? His ability to repair outdated equipment?


    Luck, it seemed, was finally on his side. As he was preparing to disembark, he overheard a conversation on the habitat¡¯s internal comms. They were looking for someone to conduct a preliminary survey of a newly discovered thermal vent, a dangerous but potentially lucrative task.


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    He took a deep breath and contacted the habitat administrator. "I overheard your request for a surveyor. I have experience in deep-sea mapping and hazard assessment."


    The administrator paused. "You do? The Marines Ghost, you say? What makes you think you''re qualified?"


    "I''m persistent," Silas replied, a rare smile playing on his lips. "And I''m available."


    After a brief negotiation, Silas secured the commission. It wasn''t much, a small fee and a share of any valuable resources discovered, but it was a start. A chance to prove himself, to earn his freedom, and to finally build a life in the silent, beautiful depths he now called home. The Marines Ghost hummed with a renewed purpose as Silas plotted his course, once again venturing into the black, this time with a sense of hope, a compass pointing towards a future of his own making.


    The crushing pressure was Silas''s constant companion. He felt it in his teeth, a dull ache behind his eyes, a weight that never lifted in their submarine world. Outside, the ink-black abyss stretched, punctuated only by the bioluminescent blooms of strange, otherworldly creatures. He was a denizen of the deep, like everyone else, his life tied to the rhythmic hum of his submarine, the Marine''s Ghost.


    Silas ran a calloused hand over the newly acquired survey data. Geothermal vents. Hot, dangerous, valuable. He''d navigated the treacherous currents and labyrinthine canyons to reach the location, a feat in itself. Getting lost was practically a guarantee in these uncharted depths. He''d spent hours retracing his path, relying on his gut feeling and the archaic sonar system of the Ghost.


    Initially, he hadn''t questioned why they hired him, to do a proper survey. Now, as he stared at the intricate diagrams a proper survey required, the answer became brutally clear. Time. Proper surveys demanded patience, meticulous detail, and a willingness to get down and dirty in the scalding, corrosive environment around the vents. Silas had time, or, more accurately, the Commissioners felt he had time to spare.


    He eyed the diving suit, a hulking monstrosity cobbled together from salvaged metal and reinforced glass. It resembled nothing so much as a rusted, barnacle-encrusted golem. He¡¯d named it ¡°The Crusher,¡± for obvious reasons. With a sigh, Silas began the arduous process of sealing himself inside.


    The next two weeks were a trial by fire. Literally. Silas, encased in the Crusher, descended into the hellish landscape around the vents. He was a solitary figure in a silent, hostile world. The heat radiated through the suit, a constant reminder of the lethal environment. He painstakingly collected samples, meticulously documenting everything, every trace of rare minerals, every peculiar geological formation. He wasn''t a geologist, or a surveyor, just a man following instructions, driven by the promise of his commission.


    Days blurred into weeks. He slept little, snatching a few hours of fitful rest within the Crusher, the hiss of the suit''s life support system his only companion. He surfaced only to upload data, replenish supplies, and grab some nutrient paste, a grim necessity. The Marine¡¯s Ghost wasn''t built for comfort; it was built for survival. He longed for a real bed, a hot meal, anything to break the monotony of his task.


    He saw things in the darkness. Whispers of movement in the periphery, shapes that defied explanation, fleeting glimpses of colossal forms lurking in the inky depths. He dismissed them as tricks of the light, hallucinations brought on by exhaustion and the oppressive pressure.


    Finally, the survey was complete. Silas hauled himself back into the Marine''s Ghost, the Crusher groaning in protest. He was exhausted, his body aching, his mind numb. He''d spent only one night properly sleeping in his own bed. He barely registered the bioluminescent plankton flitting past the viewport as he plotted a course back to the hub, his mind already focused on the prospect of receiving his payment and finally getting some proper rest.


    As he piloted the Marine''s Ghost through the familiar underwater canyons, a chilling realization dawned upon him. He hadn''t just collected data; he''d endured. He''d faced the heat, the pressure, the isolation, and the horrors of the deep. He had proven himself resilient, capable of withstanding conditions no one else was willing to endure.


    He wasn''t just a maintenance worker anymore. He was a surveyor, a survivor, a denizen of the deepest, darkest corners of the world. And as he steered the Marine''s Ghost towards the light, a flicker of something akin to pride ignited within him. He¡¯d earned his rest. He''d earned his payday. And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this wouldn''t be his last journey into the abyss. The deep sea had a way of calling to those who truly belonged.

 A Mystery

    The cold seeped into Silas¡¯s bones, even through the thick thermal suit and the hull of the Mariner''s Ghost. Cold, the constant companion of life in the deep. He traced a finger across the cracked viewport of his miniature submarine, more like a personal submersible than a vessel for trade. The water outside was a swirling, phosphorescent soup disturbed by the currents, but beyond that, the lights of the Xylos colony shimmered, a cluster of geodesic domes clinging to a colossal hydrothermal vent system.


    Silas had never seen the sun, felt its warmth on his skin. The surface was legend, whispered in hushed tones ¨C a poisoned wasteland swallowed by the sea. His reality was the crushing pressure, the recycled air, and the flickering glow of bioluminescent algae that lined the tunnels connecting the underwater colonies.


    For five years, he''d toiled in the maintenance tunnels of Aethel Station, scraping barnacles off pipes and repairing damaged ventilation systems. The monotonous grind had fueled a burning desire for something more, something different. Three weeks ago, he''d finally taken the leap. He''d poured his savings into the Mariner''s Ghost, a salvaged submersible with more rust than paint, and set out to carve his own niche in the underwater economy.


    His first venture, a geo-vent survey for the Aethel Geophysical Consortium, had been a success. The pay was good, enough to refill his air tanks and buy a decent meal ¨C synthetic kelp steak with nutrient paste. Now, he was here, observing Xylos. He wasn''t sure why, exactly. It wasn''t on any of the major trade routes. It wasn''t a bustling hub like Neo-Atlantis or a center of research like Mariana Central. It was¡­ quiet.


    He''d been parked on the edge of Xylos''s light perimeter for three days, his sensors humming, carefully tuned. He listened to the rhythmic pulsing of the colony''s life support systems, the faint hum of the hydroponics farms, the muffled conversations echoing through the water. He watched the residents ¨C the pale faces framed by the glow of their helmets as they moved between domes, tending to the vents or studying holographic displays. They seemed¡­ insular.


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    There was something off-key about the place, a sense of underlying tension he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on. He''d tried to hail the colony control, offering various goods ¨C spare parts, nutrient supplements, even salvaged datapads filled with old Aethel Station news feeds. He received no response.


    He¡¯d picked up snippets of conversation, distorted by the water and the colony¡¯s security protocols. Whispers of "the shift," of "the elders," and of something being "different" now. He couldn¡¯t decipher the context, but it was enough to prickle the hairs on the back of his neck.


    Today, he saw something else. A flash of movement outside the central dome, a figure in a dark suit, unlike the standard colony uniform, dragging a heavy sack towards the hydrothermal vents. The figure dumped the sack in, where it sank to murky depths. Silas¡¯s sensors registered a brief spike in methane levels, but is not sure what that means.


    He shivered. What was that? What were they hiding?


    Silas knew he should leave. He was a trader, not a spy. Getting involved in Xylos''s secrets could lead to nothing but trouble. The deep was a unforgiving place, and powerful forces controlled the underwater colonies.


    But the image of that figure dumping the sack into the vent stuck with him. The mystery of Xylos tugged at him, a siren song of the abyss. He wanted to know more. He needed to know more.


    He took a deep breath, the recycled air tasting stale in his lungs. He adjusted the Mariner''s Ghost''s navigation system, setting a course away from Xylos. He wouldn''t stay. He was a trader, not an investigator.


    But he didn''t set a course for Aethel Station. He punched in the coordinates for Port Seraphina, a lawless trading post on the edge of the known colonies, a place where information was currency and secrets were the most valuable commodity of all.


    He was leaving Xylos, yes. But he wasn''t letting go of its mystery. Not yet.


    As the Mariner¡¯s Ghost turned away, Silas glanced back at the faint glow of Xylos, vanishing into the darkness. He knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in his stomach, that this was just the beginning of a much longer, and much more dangerous, journey. The deep had a way of pulling you in, and once it did, there was no escaping its currents. He was a trader now, and if Xylos had a secret, Silas intended to find a buyer. And maybe, just maybe, uncover the truth in the process.

 Port Seraphine

    The bioluminescent algae swirled around the viewport of the Mariner¡¯s Ghost, a mesmerizing dance of emerald and sapphire in the inky black. Silas adjusted the pressure regulators in his cramped cabin, his breath misting slightly in the cool, recycled air. Port Seraphina. Even the name tasted of brine and secrets.


    He¡¯d heard the stories, whispered rumors carried on the currents of the deep. A haven for the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the damned. A place where the only law was the ruthless pursuit of profit. He swallowed, a knot tightening in his stomach. This was his first time outside the regulated trade routes, but the information he carried was too valuable to risk with the Consortium¡¯s bureaucratic stranglehold.


    Silas brought the Mariner¡¯s Ghost to a gentle stop in the designated docking bay, a chaotic mess of mismatched submarines and jury-rigged platforms. He sealed his pressure suit, the familiar hiss a reassuring sound, and stepped out onto the grimy metal grating.


    The air was thick with the metallic tang of the hydrothermal vents that fueled the colony, overlaid with the acrid smell of something burning. The inhabitants were a motley crew: hardened divers with cybernetic enhancements, gaunt scavengers with haunted eyes, and smooth-talking merchants with shifty smiles. They eyed him warily, measuring him and his submarine with practiced glances.


    He made his way towards the central marketplace, a labyrinth of stalls carved into the rock face. He clutched the encrypted data chip in his hand, its contents the key to unimaginable riches¡­ or a watery grave.


    He approached the first stall, the proprietor a hulking figure with barnacle-encrusted armor. "I have¡­ information," Silas began hesitantly, "regarding the Xylos colony."


    The proprietor''s eyes narrowed. "Xylos? What about Xylos?" He spat a stream of dark phlegm onto the grating. "Nothing good comes from that name."


    Silas pressed on, "I have recent telemetry data¡­ trade routes, resource assessments¡­"


    The proprietor simply pointed to a crudely drawn symbol etched into the rock behind him ¨C a monstrous, serpentine creature with gaping jaws. "Xylos wants no trade. Xylos wants¡­" He trailed off, a shiver running down his spine. "¡­Quiet."


    Silas tried another vendor, a wiry woman with glowing blue tattoos. Same result. Refusal. Fear. A whispered warning about the ¡®Elders¡¯ and ¡®the shift.¡¯ One man even grabbed the data chip, only to recoil in horror, tossing it back to Silas as if it burned him.


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    ¡°Get out of here, greenhorn!¡± he hissed. ¡°Before they notice you! That information¡­ it''s cursed!¡±


    The constant rejection, the undercurrent of dread, the cryptic warnings ¨C it was all deeply unsettling. He was about to give up when he noticed a group huddled in a dimly lit corner, their faces obscured by the shadows. They were listening intently to a gaunt individual who gestured wildly with a cybernetic hand.


    He approached cautiously. ¡°Excuse me,¡± he said, ¡°I overheard you talking about Xylos¡­¡±


    The group turned, their eyes like pinpricks in the gloom. The gaunt man stepped forward. ¡°You have information about Xylos?¡± he asked, his voice raspy.


    Silas nodded, his heart pounding. ¡°Recent telemetry data. Everything you could want to know.¡±


    A tense silence followed. Then, the gaunt man smiled, a disturbing, almost predatory expression. ¡°We are¡­ interested. Very interested. What do you want for it?¡±


    The negotiations were tense, but Silas held firm. He named his price, not understanding exactly why this information was so valuable, only sensing the desperate hunger in their eyes. He sensed he had hit a jackpot.


    Days later, after a series of clandestine meetings and whispered exchanges, Silas found himself sitting in a smoky bar, surrounded by the same group. The gaunt man, now identified as a former Xylos engineer named Jorek, raised a glass of murky synth-ale.


    "To Silas," he said, "the man who brought us the truth."


    Jorek explained the situation, his voice low and bitter. Xylos had been a thriving colony, rich in rare minerals. But then, something had changed. The Elders, the ruling council, had grown increasingly paranoid, obsessed with maintaining a strange, enforced silence. Trade dwindled, communications became erratic, and then¡­ stopped altogether.


    Submarines sent to investigate were lost, their crews never heard from again. Jorek had defected, escaping in a salvaged escape pod after witnessing a terrifying ritual ¨C the sacrifice of entire submarine crews to appease a monstrous creature that lurked in the abyssal trenches outside the colony''s shield.


    "They believed the silence pleased it," Jorek continued, his face contorted with grief and rage. "Noise, light¡­ anything that drew attention was seen as an offering. That¡¯s why they cut off communications. That¡¯s why they refused trade."


    Silas realized with a jolt that the Mariner¡¯s Ghost, his ancient, clunky submarine, had likely been ignored because it was¡­ quiet. Its antiquated technology wasn¡¯t as noisy or brightly lit as the modern vessels. He¡¯d unwittingly stumbled upon the colony¡¯s tragic secret.


    The shock of the revelation washed over him. He¡¯d been lucky. Blind, dumb luck. He''d been on the verge of being sacrificed to a sea monster.


    The mystery of Xylos was solved. The silence had been broken. Information, indeed, was power.


    He drained his ale, a grim smile playing on his lips. The dark secret of Xylos had given him the capital he needed. Now, it was time to go back to trading. He had a new reputation, a new story, and a new understanding of the value of silence. He might just become a legend in the underwater trading world. And all he had to do was nearly get eaten by a sea monster.

 Distress Call

    The murky green light of the Deep Sea filtered weakly through the reinforced porthole, casting long, distorted shadows across the cramped cabin of the Mariner''s Ghost. Silas, his face gaunt and pale in the artificial glow of the control panels, wiped a smear of grime from his cheek. He hadn''t slept properly in three days. Three days of navigating treacherous trenches, avoiding the currents, and the endless, grinding paranoia that came with traveling alone in the black abyss.


    Port Seraphine still clung to him, not just in the scent of stale fish wafting from the cargo hold, but in the tense set of his jaw and the way his hand instinctively drifted to the plasma pistol holstered at his hip. Seraphine, a sprawling, ramshackle cluster of welded hab-units and nutrient farms clinging precariously to a hydrothermal vent, was a place where laws were suggestions and survival was a daily battle. He''d gotten a good deal on the supplies there ¨C mostly salvaged tech and repurposed weaponry ¨C but the cost had been higher than credits. He''d had to look the right way, talk the right way, most fearful of Xylos stigma hanging over him, got him what he needed.


    He glanced at the manifest flickering on the central display. Nutrient paste, med-kits, some heavy-duty wiring ripped from a defunct mining drone, and a handful of antique electro-pipes rumored to be capable of filtering the worst toxins from recycled water. A mixed bag, but each item was a potential lifeline for the isolated colonies scattered throughout the abyssal plains.


    His next stop was the hydroponic farm of Oasis-7, a small, isolated community known for their genetically modified kelp that could thrive in near-total darkness. They were desperate for sealant and replacement filters. Silas hoped the deal he had in mind would be enough to convince them to part with a significant portion of their harvest.


    The hydrophone crackled to life, spitting out a garbled message. He adjusted the frequency, his fingers flying across the worn keyboard. It was a distorted, almost desperate plea.


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    "¡­Mariner''s Ghost, this is¡­ this is¡­ Deepwell Station, sector¡­ sector¡­ under attack¡­ requisition¡­ assistance¡­" The transmission cut off abruptly, swallowed by the static.


    Silas swore under his breath. Deepwell Station was a small research outpost, barely more than a reinforced bubble, known for its work in xenobiology. They kept to themselves, rarely traded, and were rumored to be perpetually short on credits. Usually a distress call was ignored, written off as a bureaucratic error or a case of bad luck. But something in the fractured urgency of the message resonated with Silas. He hesitated.


    Helping Deepwell would mean deviating from his planned route, burning extra energy, and potentially facing unknown dangers. He was already on a tight schedule. Losing Oasis-7 would mean lost credits, a failure on his part, and another setback in his nascent career as an independent trader.


    He looked at the map, the blinking light of Deepwell a tiny, insignificant point in the vast, unforgiving darkness.


    "Damn it," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the hum of the submarine''s engine. "Rookie mistake. Letting sentimentality get in the way of business."


    He banked the Mariner''s Ghost hard to port, the submarine groaning in protest as it cut through the inky water. He rerouted power to the forward sonar, and the ghostly outline of the seabed began to take shape on the screen.


    He was still a novice, barely a month into this life, but the Deep Sea had already taught him one crucial lesson: sometimes, the only thing standing between life and death was the ruthless decision to choose. And sometimes, even for Silas, the choice was a little harder than it seemed. He gripped the controls, his knuckles white. He might be cold, but he wasn''t dead. Not yet. His mind calculated, rescuing Deepwell, and establishing trade relations, perhaps even research results. He would be putting his Mariner''s Ghost in danger, and all he had were some harpoon guns.


    He turned off comms. Although the chance was small, it could be a trap. He had heard rumors of Raiders luring submarines in as prey.


    Silas doesn''t feel a need to be a Saviour, as a gamble. No one helped him when he lived out his days as a maintenance worker. He had to work hard to escape that himself, and he isn''t risking to gamble it away.


    He turns away to Oasis-7.