The command deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa hummed with a strained, anxious energy, a far cry from the silent majesty it once commanded. The light from the curved view-screens was dull, flickering occasionally as the ancient vessel's wounded heart struggled to distribute its dwindling power. Outside, the surreal, glassy stillness of the Calm Belt stretched to the horizon, a deceptive peace that pressed in on them with the weight of a tomb.
Aurélie stood at the central console, a statue of focused calm amidst the electronic sigh of the ship. Her silver hair, always loose, caught the weak light like tarnished wire. The cursed blade Anathema rested against her hip, a silent promise. Her steel-gray eyes were fixed on the main screen, where a jagged, dark shape was beginning to resolve from the haze.
"Approaching Gora-Gora Island," Galit Varuna called out, his voice a study in contained intensity. He leaned over the navigation panel, his long neck coiled in a loose 'S' as his emerald eyes darted across the scrolling data. "The Rumbling Land. Arrival in fifteen minutes. Sensors are… limited. The magnetic field here is a mess."
At an auxiliary station, Bianca Clark was a storm of greasy, floral-chic anxiety. Her fingers danced over flickering readouts, pushing up the large magnifying goggles on her forehead with a grease-stained wrist. "Like, not good, you guys. The solar uptake is, like, throwing a tantrum. Distribution is all… wibbly. We're running on fumes and wishes."
"Can we dive?" Aurélie asked, her voice low and even.
Bianca blew a stray lock of black hair from her face. "I would not, like, recommend it. Our life support is, like, totally sketchy. If we, like, go under, we gotta be in and out like a, like, really fast duck. A diving duck. You know?"
Aurélie gave a single, shallow nod. "Understood."
From a shadowy corner cluttered with protruding crystal interfaces, Charlie Leonard Wooley's voice cut through the mechanical whispers. "Ahem!" He adjusted his round wire-framed glasses, his pith helmet seeming to glow in the dim light. "Would it not be epistemologically sound to postulate that any ancient facility designed to accommodate a vessel of this considerable magnitude would necessitate a suitably grandiose entrance? A submerged dry-dock, perhaps, or a concealed coastal aperture?"
Galit didn't turn, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. "Is he always like this?"
A ghost of a smirk touched Aurélie's lips. "You will adjust. He is…"
"Like, super annoying," Bianca interjected, shooting Charlie a look that was more fond than irritated, "but also, like, super smart. He's not wrong. If there's a 'Sector Zero,' it's, like, gotta be big. But it'd be old. Maybe hidden. Or underwater, like that ruins-city where we, like, found this bucket of bolts."
"Continue your scans," Aurélie ordered. "Let us see what the island reveals of itself first."
Galit returned to his console, muttering under his breath as he fine-tuned the scanners, his neck knotting briefly in frustration. "Wind shifting northwest… mineral density spiking… thermal signature from the central massif…"
On the Aetherium Terrace above, the air was not calm. It vibrated. A low, sub-audible grumble seeped up from the sea itself, making the deck plates thrum beneath Ember's boots. Gora-Gora Island dominated the view, not as a welcoming paradise, but as a clenched fist of stone thrust up from the deep. The coastline was a rust-red nightmare of twisted, metallic trees—Iron-Mangroves, their roots like petrified arteries clawing at the water. Beyond them, the land rose in savage, razor-edged ridges, the infamous Razor Karsts, black against a sky stained by plumes of thick, grey smoke from a distant volcano.
The island didn't just look hostile; it sounded it. A distant, rhythmic thump-thump-thump echoed across the water, the heartbeat of industry—the relentless mining of Grav-Ore. The smell hit her next, cutting through the salt air: the acrid bite of smelted metal, wet vegetation, and something deeper, like earth turned inside out.
Ember sat cross-legged, her charred plush rabbit, Mr. Cinders, tucked beside her. The rare, terrible clarity Ibu had granted her made the scene painfully sharp. She wasn't sketching explosions or manic patterns; she was trying to capture the oppressive weight of the place. Her pencil moved in quick, sure strokes, outlining the brutal skyline.
Then something caught her eye. Near the base of the closest karst, where the rust-red mangroves gave way to sheer black cliff, the water color changed. It was a patch of unnaturally vivid, almost violent purple and blue, a sprawling, fan-shaped structure that clung to the rock. It wasn't just coral. Its pattern was too geometric, too… architectural. It looked like a collapsed gate smothered in centuries of reef growth.
A memory, not her own, not Josiah's, but something older, whispered at the edge of her mind. Concealment. Preservation. She cocked her head, the calm within her focusing the observation into certainty. Closing her sketchbook, she stood and headed inside, the rhythmic thrumming of the island following her like a dirge.
Ember walked onto the command deck, the heavy door sighing shut behind her. "Hey. You should come see this."
Four sets of eyes turned to her. Aurélie's assessing gaze, Bianca's curious blink, Charlie's scholarly glare over his glasses, Galit's sharp tactical look.
"Like, what's up, Sparky?" Bianca asked, turning from her console.
Wordlessly, Ember walked over and placed her open sketchbook on the central console. She pointed a finger, stained with charcoal and old burns, at the detailed drawing of the jagged coast and the peculiar coral formation. "This. It looks… placed. Not grown."
Bianca leaned in, her goggles magnifying her intrigued expression. "Whoa. Like, yeah. That's not a happy little accident. The growth pattern is all… symmetrical."
Charlie bustled over, peering down his nose. "Ahem! A fascinating anomaly! The coralline structure appears to follow a parabolic curve inconsistent with natural sedimentation. Could this be calcareous overgrowth on a pre-existing, artificial framework?"
Bianca nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she thought. "Like, yeah. But if it's, like, covering something, then…"
"It would be submerged," Aurélie finished, her eyes narrowing at the sketch. "And possibly blocked."
"Like, yeah," Bianca echoed. She glanced at the broader sensor display. "Are there, like, a lot of ships near that side of the island?"
Galit manipulated the controls. A grainy image resolved on a secondary screen, showing the opposite coast. A bustling, vertical port city was built into a colossal caldera, thick with the ant-like shapes of steamships and ore barges. "Active shipping dock here. Industrial port. The volcano's on the far side. Thermal and seismic activity is high. The locals are definitely home."
"I saw the smoke," Ember said quietly. "Billowing from the highlands."
"We should be able to investigate the coral site closer, get better scans," Galit stated. "Right now, with passive sensors only…"
"Like, everything's coming back blurry and sad," Bianca groaned, gesturing at her flickering panels. "We, like, need to be right on top of it."
Aurélie's gaze swept from the sketch to the live feed of the distant, hostile port. A direct approach was impossible. "Plot a course to those coordinates. Stealth approach, minimal power. Galit, take us in."
"Finally," Galit muttered, his hands moving with fluid grace over the controls. The deck beneath them gave a deep, metallic groan as the massive submarine began a slow, silent turn.
Bianca straightened up, moving a stray stand of hair from her face. "I'll, like, go up top with Ember and, like, get a visual. Maybe we will see, like, what these busted scanners can't."
"I will accompany you!" Charlie announced, already clutching his satchel to his side. "A field observation is paramount! The mineral composition of that formation alone could tell us volumes!"
Galit didn't look back, but his voice was dry. "Try not to fall overboard. The water here is said to be… unforgiving."
Aurélie watched them go, her hand resting lightly on the worn leather of her poetry notebook. The island ahead rumbled its low, perpetual warning. Somewhere under those razor ridges and that odd, beautiful coral, lay the hope for their ship, and the ghost of a civilization that had tried to build things to last. They were sailing into the maw of a land that ate weakness, and their clock was ticking down with every strained breath of the Thalassa's failing systems. The silent swarm within her felt the tension, a restless itch just beneath her skin, waiting.
-----
The ancient, wind-scoured deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa thrummed with the distant, angry heartbeat of Gora-Gora Island. Bianca gripped the cold railing, her knuckles pale against the weathered Seastone-Weave Adamwood. She sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling. The wind carried a metallic tang, gritty and dry, layered over the salt.
"So, like, it smells like they're digging," she announced, as if diagnosing a faulty engine. "Or like, mining. Big time. Smells like… hot stone and slag. And rust. Lots of rust."
Beside her, Ember held her sketchbook tight to her chest, the charred plush rabbit peeking from her belt. The vivid clarity she'd been granted made the industrial stench feel like an assault. "What could they be mining that's so important?"
From behind them, a sharp, familiar sound cut through the low rumble. "Ahem!" Charlie Leonard Wooley adjusted his pith helmet, his posture straightening into lecture-mode. "Based on the active coastline and the volume of shipping traffic observed on the thermal scan, it is logically sound to postulate that this settlement supports a significant industrial trade network within this sector of the New World. The level of logistical coordination and the sheer infrastructural footprint suggests an operation integrated into a broader, potentially extra-island societal framework. The extracted mineralogical resource is, therefore, almost certainly of substantial value beyond mere local subsistence."
Bianca moved an unruly strand of black hair from her face, tucking it behind a grease-smudged ear. "So, like, that could get complicated. And if they're diggin' up the whole island with, like, steam-shovels and whatever, then how'd they, like, miss a massive ancient facility? Wouldn't they have, like, tripped over it?"
Charlie cleared his throat again, a sound like grinding chalk. "While the scale of the operation is visually impressive, one must consider several mitigating variables! One: their excavations may be geographically focused away from the location of the purported facility. Two: they may lack the archaeological interest or the specific historical knowledge to recognize its significance amidst the geological strata. Three: they may be perfectly aware of its existence, and we are the interlopers operating under a deficit of intelligence. There are, of course, seventeen other plausible hypotheticals I have not enumerated due to time constraints."
Bianca nodded slowly, her eyes wide with mock solemnity. "Like, got it. So, like, please don't elaborate on the other seventeen. My brain's, like, at capacity."
Ember's voice was small, almost lost in the wind. "So what does this mean for us? Do we just… walk in?"
Bianca turned and offered a lopsided grin that didn't quite reach her worried eyes. "It, like, means nothing other than we gotta be, like, extra sneaky and stuff. Ninja-mode. We're, like, good at being sneaky." She leaned back against the railing, flicking a wrist dismissively. "Should be, like, cool."
Charlie cocked his head, his round glasses flashing. "I would vigorously argue that our collective track record demonstrates a notable deficiency in sustained, successful stealth operations."
"Well, like, whatever!" Bianca interrupted, throwing her hands up. "We're, like, here now! And if you, like, want to talk to, like, the ancient interactive operating system, the like we gotta, like, get the parts and stuff."
Charlie blinked rapidly, a spark of pure, academic horror in his eyes. He pointed a finger skyward. "Unthinkable! The primary historical site must remain uncontaminated by contemporary interference! Top priority! The demands of history are absolute!"
Bianca's smirk returned, genuine this time. "So, like, there you go. We're, like, doing the sneaky thing. No matter what."
Ember took a small step forward, squinting past Bianca's shoulder at the churning water closer to the island's jagged shore. Her newfound lucidity sharpened her focus. She pointed a slender finger. "So… should we do anything about that?"
Bianca and Charlie turned.
Cutting through the rusty water near the mangroves was a vessel. It was a low, wide craft sheathed in patchwork iron plates, like a floating forge. A single squat smokestack belched black soot that stained the sky. Mounted on its bow was a harpoon cannon large enough to punch through a schooner's hull. It moved with a purposeful, grinding rhythm, its course a slow, methodical patrol along the coast.
Bianca cursed, a short, sharp word that was swallowed by the wind. "You, like, gotta be kiddin' me."
Charlie adjusted his glasses, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It appears the island's coastal perimeter is under vigilant surveillance. A logical precaution for a mining operation of this scale, to deter scavengers and intellectual property thieves."
"Like, yeah, no kidding," Bianca muttered, her mind already racing through options. Her eyes darted to the closed deck hatch, then back to the patrol boat. "Our, like, passive sensors might not have, like, pinged it 'cause it's, like, all iron and steam. No fancy energy signatures. Just, like, old-school nasty." She threw her hands up in exasperation. "We're gonna, like, have to do a shallow dive. Like, right now. And just, like, hope the, like, life support doesn't hiccup."
Without waiting for another debate, she shoved off the railing and strode toward the heavy door leading inside. "Come on! Unless you, like, wanna, like, wave and ask for a tour!"
She swung the door open, the groan of its hinges sounding impossibly loud. Ember cast one last look at the approaching iron scow, the image searing itself into her mind—not as a source of manic inspiration, but as a cold, clear threat. Then she followed, with Charlie close behind, his satchel of scrolls bouncing against his hip, his head no doubt already composing a furious entry about the impertinence of modern security interfering with historical inquiry. The deck emptied, leaving only the thickening smell of industry and the ever-present, grinding rumble of the land that refused to be silent.
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