The emerald carpet of aetheric lichen cushioned Titus’s sixteen-ton descent, swallowing the impact without a sound.
Outside the quartz viewport of the bathysphere module, the underground basin stretched into the twilight distance. Veins of glowing cobalt crystal branched across the soaring dark rock ceiling twenty-three thousand meters beneath the Pacific surface, bathing the ancient giant stone stonework in a steady, cold glow. Water here was undisturbed by the howling whirlpool above. It rested heavy, dense, and still, soaked with stone salts and dissolved fiery gases.
Toby Mallow leaned over the helm console, his fingers flicking through the main circuit breakers. One by one, the clockwork hum of the active hydrophone arrays dropped into silence.
“Sound pingers dark,” Toby whispered, keeping his voice low despite the three feet of high-pressure dark rock and silver-steel separating them from the deep. “Internal forward thrust switched to Titus’s pressure-sparking storage tank. We’re officially a rock resting on the bottom.”
Arthur Vance didn’t answer right away. He stood before the forward watching port, the brass frame of his Zeiss type-list magnifying glass resting against his right cheekbone. Through the tuned lenses, the three-mile expanse of the central plateau sharpened into distinct tactical planes.
At the center of the plateau rose the Sunken Bio-Cathedral.
