Arthur stepped through the silver curtain. Then, the crushing weight of twenty-six thousand meters of oceanic water vanished.
The sensation was dizzying. His boots struck dry, polished stone with a sharp, echoing clack. The air inside the passage was thin, cold, and smelled of rusted iron and dry electric spark—the distinct ozone tang of an arc-welder’s workshop.
Arthur right away checked the pressure drop valve on his chest rig.
“Equalization holding,” he confirmed, checking his squad’s tracking data. “The barrier field maintains an internal air pressure of eighteen sea-weights. Dense enough to prevent explosive cold air bubbling in our blood, but dry.”
Echo flopped onto the dry stone floor with an undignified, wet splat.
The axolotl lay on his white belly, his external cyan gills drooping slightly in the absence of water. He looked up at Arthur with wide, mildly confused eyes. He opened and closed his mouth with a tiny, protesting:
Bloop?
Arthur chuckled, kneeling to lift the three-meter salamander into his arms. “I know, buddy. Walking on legs isn’t your favorite thing.” He reached into his field kit. He drew a wide silicone harness that wrapped around Echo’s midsection. That let the axolotl hover effortlessly in the air using his own internalized spatial floating.
