The heavy dark metal anchor spikes holding Titus to the dark rock ledge snapped with the sound of twin rifle shots.
The sixteen-ton living bathysphere was ripped from the terrace, caught in the howling, circular grasp of the hadal whirlpool. The spinning force was terrifying: millions of tons of black water spinning at eighty knots. It dragged Titus into a violent, downward corkscrew toward the boiling magma crust-sink vent at minus twenty-three thousand meters.
Inside the cabin, Toby was thrown against his harness. He shouted over the screech of the load-bearing inner walls as the g-force meters redlined at 7.2G.
“We’re spinning out of control!” Toby yelled, his knuckles white against the emergency brake levers. “The centripetal force is going to shear our mounting brackets! Titus can’t right himself!”
Arthur Vance stood in the center of the cabin, perfectly balanced, his feet steady on the tilting deck. His left hand was pressed against the glass of the chest flask mounted to his combat harness.
Inside the flask, Echo was glowing with brilliant, unearthly light.
The little pink axolotl was no longer floating upside down with his vacant, derpy smile. His four outer gills had swelled into majestic, feathery crowns of swirling aurora—emerald, violet, and deep sky azure. His black bead eyes were burning with ancient, ancient intelligence.
