The night before launch, Henshaw convened the crew in the strategy dome—a circular room lined with three-dimensional star charts and ocean simulations. The surface viewports were opaque now, replaced by tactical readouts and schematics of the harvester.

  He tapped a holo-projection, tracing the storm funnel with a gloved finger. “Harvester R4-Lok. Gravity well intensity reaches subcritical at 900 meters, but core stability is highest at the eye, exactly where the control nexus sits.”

  Elizabeth pointed to a narrow strut of glowing conduits. “That connector link, if we sever it, the whole funnel collapses.”

  Sinclair frowned. “But it’s heavily shielded. You need a high-frequency shockwave direct hit.”

  Rafael drummed his fingers. “Which means we get one shot. Miss, and it triggers an overload, incinerates the sub.”

  A heavy silence fell. Outside, the sound of the ocean echoed through the hull, a hammer on glass.

  Henshaw met each of their eyes. “One shot, maximum effect. We go in low, skim the surface, strike fast, then outrun the collapse.”

  Elizabeth swallowed, resolve hardening. “What about evacuation?”

  Sinclair answered before Henshaw could. “We’re not evacuating. There’s no lifeboat out there. We either succeed or we drown in the storm we create.”

  Rafael’s voice was soft. “Then we make it count.”

  Launch dawned in muted tones of grey and cobalt. The city’s towers pulsed a farewell rhythm as Deep Crown slid from its cradle. Silence, then a hum of anti-gravity plates. The sub rose until only its lower keels touched the living water. Engines whispered to life, and they slipped into the gelatinous blue like a dagger through silk.

  Henshaw’s voice crackled over the intercom. “All stations report.”

  “Propulsion green. Skimmer systems are active,” Ortega confirmed.

  “Sensors online. Tactical interface engaged,” Elizabeth added, eyes flicking through layers of alien readouts.

  “Weapons hot and calibrated,” Sinclair said.

  Henshaw exhaled, a sound of contained fury. “Then let’s go hunting.”

  The channel of living coral corridors opened onto the open sea. Here, the blue haze was thinner, revealing the distant silhouette of R4-Lok. The harvester loomed like a blighted cathedral, tendrils of water roaring upward in an endless cyclone.

  “Approach vector alpha,” Ortega announced. “Skim height fifty meters, ETA one minute.”

  Elizabeth tapped a sequence on the holo-display. “Linking drones. Three minutes to deploy the support net.”

  The sub’s nose dipped, engines shifting to surface-skimmer mode. They rode the waves with uncanny grace. Henshaw’s eyes narrowed on the storm’s eye.

  “Target in sight,” Sinclair whispered.

  The harvester’s gravity well pulsed around its core, a spinning lattice of tearing force. Lightning danced across the funnel’s rim. A soft beep sounded in Elizabeth’s earpiece.

  “Drones deployed,” she reported. Support net active. Minor interference in the energy field.”

  Sinclair typed furiously, calibrating the shockwave cannon. “Core lock at twenty per cent. We need ninety to break the shield.”

  Rafael stood behind him, gaze steady. “We’ve got time. We’re clear of surface eddies.” He smirked. “I hope.”

  Henshaw sat forward. “On my mark—three, two, one, fire.”

  The sub shuddered as the shockwave cannon unleashed a pulse of liquid plasma. The energy rippled outward in a perfect sphere, striking the connector link at the harvester’s core. The lattice buckled. The funnel’s roar faltered, then collapsed inward, roaring as water slammed back into the ocean like an avalanche.

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  The chamber shook. Warning lights flared. Sinclair cursed. “Backdraft is coming.”

  “Full power,” Henshaw ordered. “Get us out!”

  Deep Crown lurched forward, engines roaring as they punched through the collapsing storm. The ocean surface boiled around them, waves towering, then falling away in their wake.

  “We did it,” Elizabeth breathed, voice cracking with relief.

  “Not yet,” Henshaw replied. “Stay sharp.”

  The tanker continued, gravity wells collapsing one by one. The Dorne Phyrax harvester shuddered, its systems overloading. A final pulse of energy detonated in a silent flash beneath the waves, sending shockwaves rippling through the water.

  Then, silence.

  Deep Crown surfaced fully, rising free of the water. The storm had dissipated, leaving only the calm aftermath. The harvester, a shattered husk, drifted listlessly.

  Rafael exhaled, feeling the weight of victory and the ache of what was to come. “We shut them down. For now.”

  Sinclair lowered his gaze. “But they’ll come back.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “And we’ll be ready.”

  Henshaw looked out at the broken cathedral of steel and water. “Then we prepare. Because this war is just beginning.”

  As Aquila Opus turned toward the depths, the Vey’Narii city pulsed in silent salute. The first victory had been won, but the ocean still whispered of battles to come.

  The lights of the Vey’Narii city shimmered in the aftermath of victory—an eerie calm curling through the living architecture like bioluminescent mist. Deep Crown had slipped back into its cradle, the anti-gravity plates folding silently as the vessel settled into the living embrace of the chamber. Outside, the ocean-city pulsed with quiet relief: towers of liquid light dimmed to a gentle glow, glyphs on the water-walls slowed their dance, and the hushed chorus of the tide-forged constructs faded to a whisper.

  Captain Nathan Henshaw disembarked last, boots sounding muted clicks against the bio-metallic floor. The rest of the crew had dispersed to tend to their duties—Elizabeth calibrating the tactical interface for the next encounter, Ortega running diagnostics on the skimmer drives and cataloguing performance logs for the hybrid alloys. But Henshaw felt restless, as if the city’s lullaby failed to soothe him.

  He crossed the antechamber and ascended the gentle incline into the observation balcony, where a great arch of living water served as a viewport. Through its sapphire sheen, he could see the endless sea beyond—calm now, but forever shifting in shape and shadow. The first tendrils of dawn glimmered on the horizon, tinting the depths in soft violet.

  A single figure stepped into the balcony’s circle of light: Sinclair. He came without announcement, shoulders heavy, his usual banter tucked away behind cautious eyes. Henshaw offered a silent nod.

  “Mind if I join you?” Sinclair’s voice was low, respectful of the cathedral hush.

  “Please.” Henshaw gestured to the pool floor beneath them, where glyphs pulsed with muted patterns. “I was just… thinking.”

  Sinclair stood beside him, gaze drawn to the living water. For a moment, they were silent, two humans adrift in a world that defied every rule they knew.

  “You did well today,” Sinclair ventured, voice wavering between praise and apology. “That strike—it was like watching a star explode in slow motion.”

  Henshaw let a half-smile break his stern mask. “We were lucky.” He turned to face Sinclair, eyes reflecting the balcony’s glow. “And you, your calibration was perfect. If your timing had been off by a fraction, we’d have been the ones ripped apart.”

  Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “I keep thinking about how easily it went. No Phyrax fighters in the sky, no drones to intercept us, no shields beyond that core link. It was like they didn’t even see us coming.”

  Henshaw’s jaw clenched. “We can’t afford to be complacent. Today’s harvester was the largest we’ve encountered, but also the most exposed. Tomorrow, they’ll guard the next one. They’ll adapt.”

  They paused as a ripple of glyph-light danced beneath their feet, shifting into new patterns, an unspoken reminder that the Vey’Narii watched and learned alongside them.

  Sinclair ran a hand through his hair. “I worry they’ve already noticed. The seismic tremors from the explosion must have registered across half the planet. The Phyrax will be spooling contingency plans right now.”

  Henshaw turned back to the window, hand pressed lightly on the cool surface of living water. “We’ve drawn blood. Now we can’t hide. The war, Sinclair… It’s just beginning.” His voice dropped, grave as a prayer. “I can’t shake this feeling that the next fight will be so much harder.”

  Sinclair exhaled, shoulders sagging. “So what do we do? We’ve got Deep Crown and the Vey’Narii’s support, what more can we prepare?”

  Henshaw’s eyes drifted to the horizon, where the last night-blues kissed the dawn. “We adapt faster. We learn the Phyrax as we go. Understand their tactics, their biology. Find their weaknesses.” He paused, voice softening. “And we look after each other.”

  Sinclair turned, surprise flickering in his gaze. “You sound like a ship’s counsellor.”

  Henshaw let out a breathy laugh. “Maybe I am. After everything we’ve seen… I’m not just a captain anymore. I’m a man who holds my crew’s lives in his hands. We need each other.”

  The living water shimmered, arranging itself into the glyph for unity, a circle enfolded by twin spirals. Sinclair’s gaze fell on it, and he nodded once. “Unity. I like that.”

  They stood side by side in contemplative silence, watching the city above the waves come alive with morning’s promise.