The door to the meeting room hissed open, not with authority, but with the weary sigh of hydraulics under constant stress.
Commander Kael "Rigger" Rhys stepped inside, leaving the dry, pressurized air of the surface lobby behind. He hated lobbies; they were designed to lie. They promised permanence and stability, while underneath, the sea always waited, ready to reclaim.
The woman who hired him, Dr. Lena Vos, sat across a polished plasteel table that could likely withstand more pressure than the room itself. Vos was sharp, mid-forties, wearing the grim competence of someone who had spent their life trading comfort for discovery. Her eyes were red-rimmed—lack of sleep, or salt—Kael couldn't tell.
"Commander Rhys," she said, her voice tight. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. And for agreeing to the NDAs."
"I'm expensive on short notice, Doctor," Kael replied, dropping his sea-stained satchel onto the floor with a dull thud. "And the non-disclosure agreement was longer than most novels. Let's get to the point. The contract states I am to assume command of The Guardian—your primary defense submersible—in the Challenger Deep. I assume this means Triton is operational."
A slight smile crossed her lips, instantly gone. "Triton is… beyond operational. It is the greatest energy discovery in history, Commander. A perpetual, geothermal-biological fusion event we tapped into two weeks ago. Enough to power the surface for five centuries."
Kael didn't react. He'd seen "greatest discoveries" before. They usually ended with a hull breach and a lot of paperwork.
"And why do you need a defense submersible with an ex-military pilot to guard a science project?" Kael leaned forward, resting his augmented forearms on the cool plasteel. "The Oceana Consortium has always preferred academic silence over armed security. Who are you defending against, Doctor? The fish?"
Vos sighed, running a hand through her close-cropped hair. "We call them the Trident, Commander. Three pressures working against us. First, the corporate sabotage, standard fare. Second, the Eco-Defense Collective—radicals who believe harnessing any deep-sea energy is sacrilege. They're smart, resourceful, and ruthless."
She paused, then lowered her voice, though the room was certainly scrubbed of listening devices. "The third pressure is the Global Security Force. They want Triton under military control. They call it global asset protection. We call it theft."
Kael felt a familiar, metallic taste of danger on his tongue. He had left the GSF five years ago, trading their rigid hierarchies for the honest unpredictability of the ocean.
"You're asking me to fight a three-way war at crush depth for an energy source that, by your admission, could save the world. You should have hired an army, not one pilot."
"We hired the best pilot, Commander. Your record on the Cerberus missions is legendary. You know how to pilot a deep-rated vessel blind, and you know GSF tactics. We need you to keep The Guardian operational and the Trident Platform safe until we can deliver the data to the UN." Vos pushed a heavy, military-grade tablet across the table. "Your primary task is hull integrity. The pressure at that depth is absolute. It is the only real enemy down there."
Kael picked up the tablet. The schematics for The Guardian were complex but familiar—a vessel built for war, repurposed for science. He saw the coordinates: a black scar of a location, nine-thousand meters down.
"The crush depth contract," Kael murmured, his eyes scanning the data feed. A single detail snagged his attention: a recent repair log showing a critical welding failure on the port hydro-stabilizer. "This repair was done two days ago. It's rated for eight thousand meters, but the Challenger Deep is almost eleven. Who certified this weld?"
Vos leaned back, her composure slipping again. "That was… necessary. We are under pressure, Commander. We had to rush."
"Rushing gets people killed down there, Doctor. The deep doesn't forgive," Kael said, the professionalism hardening into a warning. He accepted the tablet and stood up. "I'll take the contract. But understand this: My only loyalty is to keeping that hull intact. If this job gets messy, The Guardian is a lifeboat, not a fortress."
He turned and walked toward the door. The hiss of the hydraulics returned, a sound that now seemed less like a sigh and more like a clock counting down. He had 12 hours to brief his crew and descend into the deep-sea conflict zone, where the pressure outside was a known quantity, but the human treachery inside remained to be seen.Chapter 1: The Crush Depth Contract (Excerpt)
The door to the meeting room hissed open, not with authority, but with the weary sigh of hydraulics under constant stress.
Commander Kael "Rigger" Rhys stepped inside, leaving the dry, pressurized air of the surface lobby behind. He hated lobbies; they were designed to lie. They promised permanence and stability, while underneath, the sea always waited, ready to reclaim.
The woman who hired him, Dr. Lena Vos, sat across a polished plasteel table that could likely withstand more pressure than the room itself. Vos was sharp, mid-forties, wearing the grim competence of someone who had spent their life trading comfort for discovery. Her eyes were red-rimmed—lack of sleep, or salt—Kael couldn't tell.
"Commander Rhys," she said, her voice tight. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. And for agreeing to the NDAs."
"I'm expensive on short notice, Doctor," Kael replied, dropping his sea-stained satchel onto the floor with a dull thud. "And the non-disclosure agreement was longer than most novels. Let's get to the point. The contract states I am to assume command of The Guardian—your primary defense submersible—in the Challenger Deep. I assume this means Triton is operational."
A slight smile crossed her lips, instantly gone. "Triton is… beyond operational. It is the greatest energy discovery in history, Commander. A perpetual, geothermal-biological fusion event we tapped into two weeks ago. Enough to power the surface for five centuries."
Kael didn't react. He'd seen "greatest discoveries" before. They usually ended with a hull breach and a lot of paperwork.
"And why do you need a defense submersible with an ex-military pilot to guard a science project?" Kael leaned forward, resting his augmented forearms on the cool plasteel. "The Oceana Consortium has always preferred academic silence over armed security. Who are you defending against, Doctor? The fish?"
Vos sighed, running a hand through her close-cropped hair. "We call them the Trident, Commander. Three pressures working against us. First, the corporate sabotage, standard fare. Second, the Eco-Defense Collective—radicals who believe harnessing any deep-sea energy is sacrilege. They're smart, resourceful, and ruthless."
She paused, then lowered her voice, though the room was certainly scrubbed of listening devices. "The third pressure is the Global Security Force. They want Triton under military control. They call it global asset protection. We call it theft."
Kael felt a familiar, metallic taste of danger on his tongue. He had left the GSF five years ago, trading their rigid hierarchies for the honest unpredictability of the ocean.
"You're asking me to fight a three-way war at crush depth for an energy source that, by your admission, could save the world. You should have hired an army, not one pilot."
"We hired the best pilot, Commander. Your record on the Cerberus missions is legendary. You know how to pilot a deep-rated vessel blind, and you know GSF tactics. We need you to keep The Guardian operational and the Trident Platform safe until we can deliver the data to the UN." Vos pushed a heavy, military-grade tablet across the table. "Your primary task is hull integrity. The pressure at that depth is absolute. It is the only real enemy down there."
Kael picked up the tablet. The schematics for The Guardian were complex but familiar—a vessel built for war, repurposed for science. He saw the coordinates: a black scar of a location, nine-thousand meters down.
"The crush depth contract," Kael murmured, his eyes scanning the data feed. A single detail snagged his attention: a recent repair log showing a critical welding failure on the port hydro-stabilizer. "This repair was done two days ago. It's rated for eight thousand meters, but the Challenger Deep is almost eleven. Who certified this weld?"
Vos leaned back, her composure slipping again. "That was… necessary. We are under pressure, Commander. We had to rush."
"Rushing gets people killed down there, Doctor. The deep doesn't forgive," Kael said, the professionalism hardening into a warning. He accepted the tablet and stood up. "I'll take the contract. But understand this: My only loyalty is to keeping that hull intact. If this job gets messy, The Guardian is a lifeboat, not a fortress."
He turned and walked toward the door. The hiss of the hydraulics returned, a sound that now seemed less like a sigh and more like a clock counting down. He had 12 hours to brief his crew and descend into the deep-sea conflict zone, where the pressure outside was a known quantity, but the human treachery inside remained to be seen.