The murky green light of the Deep Sea filtered weakly through the reinforced porthole, casting long, distorted shadows across the cramped cabin of the Mariner's Ghost. Silas, his face gaunt and pale in the artificial glow of the control panels, wiped a smear of grime from his cheek. He hadn't slept properly in three days. Three days of navigating treacherous trenches, avoiding the currents, and the endless, grinding paranoia that came with traveling alone in the black abyss.
Port Seraphine still clung to him, not just in the scent of stale fish wafting from the cargo hold, but in the tense set of his jaw and the way his hand instinctively drifted to the plasma pistol holstered at his hip. Seraphine, a sprawling, ramshackle cluster of welded hab-units and nutrient farms clinging precariously to a hydrothermal vent, was a place where laws were suggestions and survival was a daily battle. He'd gotten a good deal on the supplies there – mostly salvaged tech and repurposed weaponry – but the cost had been higher than credits. He'd had to look the right way, talk the right way, most fearful of Xylos stigma hanging over him, got him what he needed.
He glanced at the manifest flickering on the central display. Nutrient paste, med-kits, some heavy-duty wiring ripped from a defunct mining drone, and a handful of antique electro-pipes rumored to be capable of filtering the worst toxins from recycled water. A mixed bag, but each item was a potential lifeline for the isolated colonies scattered throughout the abyssal plains.
His next stop was the hydroponic farm of Oasis-7, a small, isolated community known for their genetically modified kelp that could thrive in near-total darkness. They were desperate for sealant and replacement filters. Silas hoped the deal he had in mind would be enough to convince them to part with a significant portion of their harvest.
The hydrophone crackled to life, spitting out a garbled message. He adjusted the frequency, his fingers flying across the worn keyboard. It was a distorted, almost desperate plea.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"…Mariner's Ghost, this is… this is… Deepwell Station, sector… sector… under attack… requisition… assistance…" The transmission cut off abruptly, swallowed by the static.
Silas swore under his breath. Deepwell Station was a small research outpost, barely more than a reinforced bubble, known for its work in xenobiology. They kept to themselves, rarely traded, and were rumored to be perpetually short on credits. Usually a distress call was ignored, written off as a bureaucratic error or a case of bad luck. But something in the fractured urgency of the message resonated with Silas. He hesitated.
Helping Deepwell would mean deviating from his planned route, burning extra energy, and potentially facing unknown dangers. He was already on a tight schedule. Losing Oasis-7 would mean lost credits, a failure on his part, and another setback in his nascent career as an independent trader.
He looked at the map, the blinking light of Deepwell a tiny, insignificant point in the vast, unforgiving darkness.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the hum of the submarine's engine. "Rookie mistake. Letting sentimentality get in the way of business."
He banked the Mariner's Ghost hard to port, the submarine groaning in protest as it cut through the inky water. He rerouted power to the forward sonar, and the ghostly outline of the seabed began to take shape on the screen.
He was still a novice, barely a month into this life, but the Deep Sea had already taught him one crucial lesson: sometimes, the only thing standing between life and death was the ruthless decision to choose. And sometimes, even for Silas, the choice was a little harder than it seemed. He gripped the controls, his knuckles white. He might be cold, but he wasn't dead. Not yet. His mind calculated, rescuing Deepwell, and establishing trade relations, perhaps even research results. He would be putting his Mariner's Ghost in danger, and all he had were some harpoon guns.
He turned off comms. Although the chance was small, it could be a trap. He had heard rumors of Raiders luring submarines in as prey.
Silas doesn't feel a need to be a Saviour, as a gamble. No one helped him when he lived out his days as a maintenance worker. He had to work hard to escape that himself, and he isn't risking to gamble it away.
He turns away to Oasis-7.
