The marine beast-doctor razor-sharp suite in Sector 7 was a flooded chamber designed specifically for hyperbaric operations on large aquatic beasts.
The water inside the central razor-sharp pool was kept at an artificial pressure of four sea-weights. The minimum pressure needed to keep deep-sea marine animals from suffering total pressure drop sickness while human surgeons worked in sky suits along the pool’s outer edge narrow high walkways.
Arthur Vance stood over the central high-pressure running table, clad in a sterile black rubber razor-sharp apron with his sleeves rolled up and his forearm needle glove loaded with specialized acid-burn reagents. Suspended in the sling beneath him was an eight-meter Abyssal Manta-Glider, its broad, midnight-blue chest muscle fins scarred by jagged blast shrapnel.
The beast belonged to Lieutenant Commander Chen, leader of the station’s scouting outer edge wing. Chen stood on the watching narrow high walkway above. His face was pale and strained. His knuckles gripped the guardrail as he watched Arthur examine his bonded partner.
“Commander Vance, the field medics said his swim bladder is irrecoverable,” Chen called down, his voice trembling. “They want to euthanize him to harvest his core. He’s been my partner for eight years.”
Arthur didn’t look up from his check. He placed his bare hands on the manta’s ventral plate. It slid his fingers along the lateral gristle margins. Through his Zeiss Monocle Loupe, the internal sickness of the beast was projected in high-resolution body cross-sections:
