The descent into Intake Duct Beta-7 was like falling into the throat of a deep-sea serpent.
The Argo-Vanguard crossed the outer lip of the bone arch. Then, the faint, comforting needles of distant starlight were fully put out. The ship was plunged into an ocean of choking darkness, lit up only by the sluggish, living-glow currents of rotting black bile that flowed through half-mile-wide fluid-draining channels carved into the walls of the duct.
Here, the empty pocket of deep space ceased to exist.
A thin, high-pressure air—dense with boiled away methane, ammonia, and heavy organo-metal particulates—swirled around the ship’s hull. The friction of the alien air whistled against the armored quartz, a low, keening wail that rang through the load-bearing ribs of the vessel like the crying of a million drowned souls.
Arthur Vance stood in the squad prep chamber. He tightened the seals of his heavy razor-sharp duster.
Beside him, the beasts were gathering in their combat circle.
Grimm stood at the front, his heavy chest heaving with slow, rhythmic breaths, his gravity pull tightly packed to a tight three-meter outer edge around Arthur. The hound’s ears were pricked forward, his tail low and rigid, his golden eyes scanning the dark companionway.
