The cavern of the Triple Ten Gate didn't just feel large; it felt like the inside of a world. A profound, cathedral silence was broken only by the soft, rhythmic tink-tink-tink of a thousand brass limbs at work and the low, almost musical hum of the magnetic cradles. The air was cool and carried a crisp, mineral scent, like the heart of a geode, cut with the sharp, clean scent of activated machinery and aged metal.
Charlie Leonard Wooley was the first to bolt from the Thalassa's gangplank, his boots hitting the smooth, jet-black dock with a clatter that echoed absurdly in the vastness. He stumbled to a halt, his head swiveling on his neck like a malfunctioning weathervane. His eyes, magnified behind his round glasses, darted from the star-studded ceiling vaulting into impossible darkness, to the seamless, curved walls that swallow sound of the army of silent automatons moving with hypnotic purpose. He blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open in an expression of pure, academic rapture. A single, shining tear carved a clean track through the dust on his cheek.
He looked over his shoulder as the others filed out more cautiously. His voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper shattered by awe. "I have… I have no words. Have you ever seen…?" He gestured helplessly at the cavern, at the history made physical around them. "The architectural coherence! The preservation! It's a three-dimensional Poneglyph!"
Bianca and Galit emerged next, their own heads craning back. Bianca's gaze, however, swept past the philosophical grandeur and locked onto the central spectacle with the unerring instinct of a born engineer. Her eyes widened behind her smudged goggles.
"Like… whoa," she breathed, the word utterly insufficient. She pointed a grease-stained finger. "What is that?"
Galit turned, his long neck uncoiling as he followed her point. His sharp, tactical assessment of exits and threats stuttered, replaced by raw, stunned amazement. Suspended in a silent, shimmering field of blue energy was the Abyssal Glider: Model 0. It was not merely a ship; it was a shadow given form. Its hull was a black so deep it seemed to bend the faint light from the artificial fireflies above, a sleek, predatory manta-ray shape that promised impossible speed. It had no portals, no visible seams, just a smooth, organic curve that ended in wing-like fins. It looked less constructed and more grown, a creature of the void between stars, sleeping.
"Another one?" Galit managed, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Charlie finally tore his eyes from the ceiling. He followed their stares, his body going rigid. "No," he whispered. Then, louder, with the force of a revelation: "NO! It can't be! A sister vessel? A prototype? The logistical implications of dual production lines in the Void Century would rewrite every—" He was spiraling into a lecture, his hands beginning to gesture wildly.
A squad of brass automatons trundled past them, carrying between them a crystalline power conduit that pulsed with a soft, internal light. They moved with single-minded focus, paying no more attention to the living interlopers than they would to dust motes.
Galit cleared his throat, forcibly containing his own spark of excitement under a layer of pragmatic caution. He looked to Bianca. "Maybe we should investigate the facility's perimeter first. For… structural assessment. Security protocols."
But Charlie was a spring wound too tight. The words "investigate" and "historical" were a trigger. He snapped to attention as if called by a divine muse.
"I concur!" he announced, his voice ringing in the cavern. "The demands of history are non-negotiable! Immediate, hands-on analysis is paramount!" And with that, he was gone, his long legs carrying him in a frantic, comical scramble across the black dock, his satchel flapping and his pith helmet miraculously staying on. He looked like a scholarly crab racing toward the most beautiful shell in the ocean.
A soft giggle escaped Ember, the sound strangely sweet in the mechanical hum. She watched Charlie' desperate sprint with a faint, lucid smile.
Aurélie pinched the bridge of her nose, a long-suffering sigh escaping her. "Charlie! Wait! Be careful!" she called out, her stern voice echoing. "We don't know what safeguards may still be active! This isn't a library!"
Her warning was swallowed by the cavern. Charlie was already at the base of the magnetic cradle, staring up at the Glider's bow, his head tilted back so far it looked painful. Bianca, unable to resist the siren call of unknown technology, shot Aurélie a guilty, grinning shrug. "Gotta, like, supervise the enthusiastic one. Make sure he doesn't, like, lick it or something." She took off after Charlie at a fast walk, her eyes already analyzing the cradle's energy field.
Galit and Aurélie exchanged a look—a mix of exasperation and shared responsibility. Ember stood quietly between them, her sketchbook now open, her pencil moving in quick strokes to capture not just the Glider, but the tiny figure of Charlie, arms outstretched as if trying to hug the sheer scale of discovery. The silent, ancient ballet of the automata continued around them, a serene and oblivious counterpoint to the very human, very noisy wonder unfolding in their midst. The dream of the past was being visited by the chaotic, brilliant, and dangerously curious present.
-----
The iron-hulled cutter, Swift Accountant, sliced through the rust-stained water with a purpose that bordered on fury. Morning John Belied stood at the bow, his greatcoat flapping like a naval ensign in the wind that carried the island's perpetual grumble. Beside him, Over Regolith was a statue of grey efficiency, his eyes missing nothing.
They rounded the jagged spur of the Razor Karsts, and the site of the reported "anomaly" came into view. The vibrant, fan-shaped coral bed that had graced the forbidden coast for centuries was gone. In its place was a scene of horrific, fresh violence. The water was a churning soup of shattered purple and blue fragments, some as large as cartwheels, bobbing amidst frothing white foam. The exposed cliff face was raw and weeping stone, a giant, gaping wound in the island's flesh.
Over Regolith adjusted his circular spectacles, leaning over the railing. His voice was flat. "Observe. The coral. It is floating."
Morning John followed his gaze. He had expected a reef blasted to the seabed. But the force had been so immense, so specific, it had pulverized the ancient structure and launched its remains to the surface. It looked less like an explosion and more like a giant had taken a bite out of the coastline and spat out the crumbs. "That is not a natural collapse," Morning growled, his hand resting on the butt of a flintlock.
"No," Over agreed, his voice a low hum. "The fracture patterns suggest a concussive force of phenomenal, focused energy originating from behind the coral wall. Not an impact from the sea. An expulsion from within the mountain's own hydrological arteries." He pointed a gloved finger at the dark, ragged opening now visible in the cliff. "The epicenter. A tunnel."
The Swift Accountant gave a sudden, groaning lurch, heeling sharply to starboard. Both men grabbed the rail, their boots sliding on the deck.
"Report!" Morning John's command was a crack of thunder.
"Whirlpool, sir!" a sailor shouted from the wheelhouse, his voice strained. "Dead ahead! It wasn't there a minute ago!"
A navigator leaned out, face pale. "The water's draining into that hole! It's creating a vortex! We must—"
"Don't lecture, do it!" Morning John roared. "Full reverse! All engines! Do not let this ship become scrap for the deep!"
The cutter shuddered as its steam paddles fought against the newly born current. The sound was a monstrous, grinding complaint of gears and boiling water. The deck tilted dangerously as the ship was sucked sideways toward the maelstrom of churning coral and draining seawater. For a long, breathless moment, the pull of the abyss wrestled with the ship's screaming engines. Slowly, agonizingly, the Swift Accountant clawed its way backward, breaking free of the vortex's grip with a final, violent shudder that sent unsecured tools clattering across the deck.
Breathing hard, Morning John and Over Regolith shared a look. All professional exasperation was gone, replaced by a cold, shared understanding. This was an act of war.
Over broke the silence, his usual measured tone now edged with frost. "What natural phenomenon," he asked, staring at the still-churning water draining into the mountain, "creates a perfectly timed whirlpool to obscure and guard a freshly made entrance?"
"It's not a 'what,' Regolith," Morning John said, his voice low and deadly. He straightened his cravat with a sharp tug. "It's a 'who.' There is nothing natural about this. This is a surgical strike. An intrusion."
Before he could say more, a sharp, insistent brrr-ringing erupted from the bridge. A Den Den Mushi, its shell painted with black ore-dust, was writhing on its shelf. Morning John stomped over and snatched the receiver. The snail's face contorted into a familiar, mustachioed, and utterly frantic visage.
"What is it, Dusty?" Morning John snapped, preempting any rant about quotas.
The voice that came through was raw, gasping, and stripped of its usual bravado. "Cave-in! Massive! The whole central artery of the Deep-Spine is choked!"
Over Regolith was at his side in an instant. "A cave-in? Where, precisely? How? Our subsurface integrity models have a 99.8% safety coefficient. The support matrix is—"
"The models didn't account for a bloody great earthquake from the seaward side!" Dusty yelled back, the sound of crashing rock and distant screams filtering through the connection. "That explosion you're so interested in? It wasn't a firecracker! It sent a shockwave through the old lava tubes that shattered every load-bearing seam we'd reinforced for a decade!"
Morning John's knuckles were white around the receiver. "Casualties."
A heavy, static-laden silence. Then Dusty's voice, quieter, grim. "Don't know. We've only just started digging. The main crew for that shift… they're on the other side of the collapse. This is bad, Belied. Real bad. We… we may need to call the Sovereign. For support. For… for the digging."
Morning John's jaw flexed, a muscle ticking like a overtightened spring. "Any ideas on who could—"
"It wasn't my people!" Dusty interrupted, a flash of his old fire returning. "Like I told you, we didn't have any percussive expansions on the schedule! But we are cut off from the primary Grav-Ore vein, and our people are…" His voice cracked, just for a second. "…they're in the dark."
Over Regolith leaned toward the receiver, his voice cutting through the panic with chilling calm. "Do the best you can with who you have. We will divert personnel from surface operations and the port. Logistics will be re-routed. However, it will take a minimum of forty-eight hours for meaningful numbers to reach the high mines."
He paused, then delivered his assessment like a pronouncement. "We should also reach out to the Ruru-Gin. Their knowledge of the deep tunnels is nonpareil. They may provide assistance where our machinery cannot."
A grunt of acknowledgment came through the line. "Understood. Just… get them here." The connection died with a definitive click.
Over Regolith slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle. He turned and gripped the ship's railing, his usually pristine gloves digging into the iron. He stared not at the whirlpool, but at the devastated coral, the evidence of a power that had casually broken his perfect, balanced system. "Who," he whispered, the word a vapor of pure, icy rage in the cold air, "would do this? And for what conceivable purpose?"
Morning John placed a heavy, consoling hand on his shoulder. The gesture was firm, solid, like a dock post. "We will find them, Regolith. And they will answer. Not to pirates' law, or kings' law." He turned his gaze back to the wounded island, his blue eyes like chips of glacial ice. "They will answer to the ledger. And the debt for today will be paid in full." The existential dread was no longer a feeling; it was a spreadsheet, and someone had just written a catastrophic, bloody number in the column marked "Losses."
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