I'm a Geothermal Engineer. The Volcanoes Keep Horrifying Secrets.

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I've been working the thermal arrays at Cascade Station for eight years. That's a long time to spend 4000 meters under the Atlantic, but somebody's got to monitor the magma flows where the Ridge splits apart. Most people don't even know places like this exist. The station sits right in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. We're basically living inside a crack in the ocean floor where new sea floor gets made hot, magma pushes up from below, cools when it hits seawater, forms new rock, rinses and repeats for millions of years.

Pretty standard geology, except we're down here watching it happen in real time. 11 other people work the station with me. Commander Fernandez runs the show. Military guy, all sharp edges and regulation, everything. Marie Alvarez handles the rock samples and geological surveys.

She's got this way of explaining complex stuff that makes sense even when you're running on three hours of sleep. The rest of the crew rotates through maintenance, communications, life support, standard deep sea operation. My job simple enough. Keep the thermal sensor arrays running, make sure we're getting clean temperature data from the magma chambers below us.

The readings tell us when pressure builds up, when new vents might open, when we need to move equipment before it gets fried. Mathematical accuracy. That's what keeps us alive down here. 1° off could mean missing a thermal event that melts our hull. Tuesday morning at 3:47, I was running my usual diagnostics.

Coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I'd been up late the night before, reading technical manuals, some new calibration protocols from topside that probably didn't matter, but I wanted to understand them anyway. A Race 7 caught my attention. First, the temperature readings looked wrong. Not broken wrong, just wrong.

I pulled up the data stream on my workstation. The numbers were clean, no error flags. But they showed something that shouldn't exist. Perfect sine waves, temperature spikes oscillating between baseline about 12°C and 200° every 17 seconds. Exactly.

That's not how thermal vents work. They fluctuate, sure, but randomly, chaotically. This looked like somebody programmed it like the magma was following a mathematical formula instead of physics. I stared at the screen for maybe 10 minutes. Watch the pattern.

Repeat baseline to 200, back to baseline, 17 seconds on the dot every time. Perfect symmetry. My first thought was sensor malfunction. Had to be. I'd seen temperature probes go haywire before.

Usually they just flat line or start reading garbage numbers, but this was too organized to be random failure. I pulled up the calibration logs, everything looked normal. Last calibration three days ago. All parameters with intolerance hardware diagnostics came back green across the board. Power supply steady, data transmission clean, no interference from other systems.

That bugged me. If the sensor was broken, the diagnostics should catch it. That's what they're for. I grabbed my toolkit and headed for the external access tunnel. Figured I'd physically inspect the mounting brackets, make sure nothing got damaged by thermal expansion or seismic activity.

Sometimes equipment fails in ways the computers can't detect. The tunnel connects our main habitat to the sensor array mounting points. It's basically a reinforced tube with viewing ports every few meters. Water pressure out there would crush you instantly. So the tunnel's built like a submarine.

Triple hull, redundant seals, emergency isolation systems. I suited up in standard Eva gear, even though I wasn't leaving the tunnel protocol. If something goes wrong and the tunnel breaches, you've got maybe 30 seconds to get to an emergency pod. The walk to a race seven took about 15 minutes. I could see the sensor package through the viewing port.

Titanium housing bolted to a steel frame anchored in the Ridge wall. It looked fine, no obvious damage, no corrosion. Mounting brackets secure. I ran through the external diagnostics panel, All systems green signal strength, optimal temperature probe responding normally to test inputs. But when I checked the live readings, there it was again.

The same impossible pattern. 17 seconds up, 17 seconds down. Perfect mathematical clarity in a place where chaos should rule. I spent another hour checking everything twice. Swapped out the primary temperature probe with a backup unit, same readings.

Tested the data transmission cables, clean signal, verified the mounting stability with a laser level. Everything exactly where it should be. The sensor wasn't malfunctioning, it was working perfectly. It was just reporting something that couldn't exist. I figured Commander Fernandez needed to know about this.

Anomalous thermal readings could indicate equipment failure somewhere else in the system, or maybe unusual geological activity that required investigation. Either way, it was above my pay grade. I found him in the command module reviewing overnight reports. He looked tired. We all did down here.

Artificial lighting and recycled air take their toll after a while. Commander, I need to report a thermal anomaly in Array 7, I said. He glanced up from his tablet. What kind of anomaly? Temperature readings are showing perfect sine wave patterns oscillating between baseline and 200°C every 17 seconds.

Exactly. Fernandez frowned. Sensor malfunction. I ran full diagnostics. Hardware checks out.

I physically inspected the mounting assembly. Everything's functioning normally. Then run the diagnostics again. Sir, I've run them three times. The sensors working.

It's just reporting readings that don't match known thermal vent behavior. He sat down his tablet and looked at me directly. His expression was the same 1 he used when explaining why we couldn't have extra coffee rations or longer sleep cycles. Patient but final cruise. Thermal sensors malfunction.

It happens. Log the anomaly and continue normal monitoring, but the diagnostics log it. Continue normal monitoring. That's an order. I stood there for maybe 10 seconds, wanted to push back, explain that this wasn't standard sensor failure, that the readings suggested something worth investigating.

But Fernandez had that look that meant the conversation was over. Understood, Sir. I walked back to my workstation and opened the anomaly log. Typed up a brief report. Thermal array 7 showing unusual readings.

Diagnostics clean. Awaiting further investigation. Filed it in the system where it would probably sit forever. The sine wave pattern was still there when I checked the live feed. 17 seconds up, 17 seconds down.

Mathematical perfection. 4000 meters under the ocean where mathematics shouldn't apply. That was it. Continue normal monitoring. I spent the next 4 hours pulling every piece of thermal data we had three months worth.

That's a lot of numbers when you're dealing with eight active monitoring points across the Ridge system. The computer terminal in Bay 7 has this old CRT monitor that flickers when the ventilation kicks in. I've been staring at it so long the green text was burning into my retinas, but I kept going because something about that 17 second pattern bugged me.

You don't see mathematical clarity like that in nature. Not usually. The data files were organized by week, which made sense from a storage perspective but was a pain for pattern analysis. I had to merge everything into a single timeline and filter out the regular fluctuations we always see from tidal pressure changes and seasonal variations.

That's when I found it. The sine wave hadn't started yesterday. It had been there for weeks, buried in what we've been calling background noise. Faint at first, maybe half a degree of variation, but growing stronger every week, like someone was slowly turning up the volume on a radio. I printed out the historical progression, 23 pages of graphs showing the same pattern getting more pronounced over time.

Three months ago it was barely detectable. 2 months ago you could see it if you knew what to look for. Last month it was obvious. This week it was impossible to ignore. By evening I checked six more thermal arrays across different sectors of the Ridge.

All of them showed the same thing. 17 seconds up, 17 seconds down, perfectly synchronized across monitoring points that were separated by dozens of kilometers. That part really bothered me. Thermal systems don't coordinate like that across geological distances. Each monitoring point should have had its own local variations, its own timing, its own irregularities.

But these readings looked like they were all connected to the same source. I gathered up the printouts and headed to the mess hall. Marie Alvarez was sitting at the corner table with a cup of coffee and what looked like a geology textbook. She's the only person on this station who actually reads physical books instead of everything being digital.

Hey Marie, you got a minute? She looked up from her book. Some thick thing about sedimentary formations. What's up, Wesley? I spread the graphs across the table next to her coffee cup.

Remember that thermal anomaly I mentioned yesterday? I went back through the historical data. Marie set down her book and picked up the first print out. Her expression changed pretty quick as she looked at the progression of graphs. She's got this way of raising one eyebrow when something doesn't make sense to her.

These are from different censor arrays? She asked. Six different locations, all showing the same 17 second cycle. She flipped through more pages. The graphs were identical except for the timestamps and location markers.

Same amplitude, same frequency, same mathematical accuracy. This synchronization, she said, tapping the paper with her finger. This suggests a single heat source beneath multiple sensor locations. I've been thinking the same thing, but hadn't wanted to say it out loud. How big would something like that have to be?

Marie pulled out a calculator from her jacket pocket, one of those old scientific ones with tiny buttons. She started working through some equations referencing the distances between monitoring points. Minimum 3 kilometers across, she said. After a few minutes could be larger, depending on depth and thermal conductivity of the surrounding rock. 3 kilometers?

That's not a hot spring or a small magma pocket. That's something massive. What kind of geological formation creates synchronized thermal patterns across that distance? I asked. She was quiet for a long time, studying the graphs again.

Honestly, I'm not sure. This doesn't match any standard geothermal activity I've studied. That's when Commander Fernandez walked into the mess hall. He usually eats dinner around 1900 hours, always sits at the same table near the serving counter. But tonight he came straight over to us.

Working late? He asked, but his eyes were on the printouts spread across our table. Just reviewing some thermal data, I said. Fernandez picked up one of the graphs without asking. His face didn't change much, but I caught him checking his watch.

Quick glance, then back to the paper, then another glance at his watch. Equipment resonance. He said, setting the print out down. These old thermal sensors pick up vibrations from the station's mechanical systems. Happens all the time.

Marie looked confused. But Commander, the synchronization across multiple arrays suggests suggests we need to recalibrate our equipment. Fernandez interrupted. I'll have maintenance check the sensor mounts tomorrow. Probably loose bolts causing harmonic vibrations.

I was watching his face while he talked. Fernandez has been running this station for 12 years. He knows thermal systems better than most engineers. But he was giving us an explanation that didn't make technical sense, and checking his watch every few seconds like he had somewhere else to be. The frequency pattern is too regular for mechanical resonance, I said, And it's been growing stronger over time, which wouldn't happen with loose mounting hardware.

Fernandez picked up all the printouts and stacked them neatly. I'll review these in my office, Continue normal monitoring procedures. He walked away with our data, just took it and left. Marie stared after him. That was weird, right?

I mean, equipment resonance doesn't explain synchronized patterns across geologically separate locations. Yeah, that was weird. We sat there for a while, not saying much. Marie finished her coffee and went back to her book. I stayed at the table thinking about Fernandez's explanation and the way he kept checking his watch, like he was timing something around 2200 hours.

I went back to the sensor Bay. The station gets quieter at night, just the hum of ventilation and the occasional ping from the sonar array. Most of the crew was in their quarters or the rec room. I pulled up the seismic monitoring interface on Terminal 3. We don't usually cross reference thermal and seismic data unless there's a major geological event, but I figured it was worth checking.

The seismic readings showed low frequency vibrations pulsing through the bedrock, regular intervals, consistent amplitude. I ran the timing analysis and got the same result. I was expecting and dreading 17 second intervals. The vibrations lined up perfectly with the thermal spikes, heat and seismic activity coordinated across a massive area directly beneath our station.

This wasn't equipment failure or mechanical resonance or loose bolts. Something 3 kilometers wide was generating synchronized heat and vibrations 4000 meters under the Atlantic Ocean, and it was getting stronger every week. I was staring at those temperature readings when the whole station decided to shake itself apart 2:20 in the morning. That's when it hit.

I remember the exact time because I just logged the latest thermal spike when everything went sideways. Literally sideways. The tremor came from nowhere. No warning vibrations, no gradual buildup like you'd expect from tectonic activity. One second I was typing notes about the nine second intervals.

Yeah, the pattern had speed up again, and the next second I was flying across Bay 7 like someone had picked up the entire station and given it a good shake. My shoulder hit the console hard enough to leave a bruise. The impact knocked my coffee mug clean off the desk. It's shattered against the bulkhead, and I watched those ceramic pieces bounce around the floor while the whole station lurched again.

The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, then died completely. Emergency lighting kicked in. Everything went red. That's when you know things are bad, when the station computer decides you need to see everything. Bathed in the color of blood, the red LE DS cast these weird shadows that made all the familiar equipment look like alien machinery.

My workstation, the thermal monitors, even my coffee stained notepad. Everything looked wrong. The shaking lasted maybe 15 seconds, felt longer. You know how earthquakes do that. 15 seconds becomes 15 minutes in your head while you're trying not to fall over and wondering if the pressure hole's about to crack open.

When it stopped, the silence was worse than the shaking. I pulled myself back to the console. My hands were steadier than I expected. Eight years of deep ocean work teaches you to compartmentalize the panic. Save it for later, when you're not 4000 meters under the Atlantic with nowhere to run.

The thermal sensors were still online. That was good. The backup power systems had kicked in automatically, which meant the station's basic functions were intact. But when I pulled up the latest readings, my stomach dropped 9 seconds. The pattern had accelerated from 17 seconds to 9 seconds flat.

I double checked the data, ran it through the verification protocols twice. Same result. The temperature amplitudes had doubled too, where we've been seeing spikes of 6°C above baseline, now we were hitting 12° in synchronized pulses across all 8 monitoring points. That wasn't gradual change, that was exponential acceleration. I started calculating the progression rate when I heard footsteps in the corridor.

Fast uneven steps, someone running. I found Doctor Alvarez near the intersection of Corridors B&C. She was leaning against the bulkhead, breathing hard. Her usually perfect ponytail had come loose, and her lab coat was wrinkled, like she'd been thrown around just as hard as I had. Wesley.

She looked up when she heard me coming. You felt that too, right? Please tell me you felt that kind of hard to miss. I stopped a few feet away. She was pale, really pale, like someone had drained half the blood out of her face.

You OK? I was in Lab 3 when it hit. Nearly knocked me into the centrifuge. She pushed her hair back with shaky fingers. But that's not Wesley.

I need to show you something. Doctor Alvarez isn't the type to get rattled. I'd worked with her for three years, and I'd seen her handle equipment failures, pressure alarms, even a small fire in the geological lab. She stayed calm through all of it. Professional.

This wasn't that person. What were you working on? I asked. Rock samples from the external collectors. She straightened up, trying to pull herself together.

I've been analyzing the mineral composition of the volcanic debris we've been picking up around the Ridge, Routine stuff. But Wesley, these samples, they're not normal. I figured she meant unusual mineral content, maybe some rare elements that didn't belong in mid ocean Ridge formations. That happens sometimes when you're dealing with deep thermal vents.

I was wrong. There are tool marks, she said. Geometric cuts in the volcanic rock, clean edges, perfect angles. This isn't natural erosion. Wesley, someone or something made these cuts that stopped me cold.

Tool marks I repeated in volcanic rock. I know how it sounds, but I've been doing geological analysis for 15 years. I know the difference between natural fracturing and artificial cutting. She pulled out her tablet, started scrolling through the images. Look at these samples.

The edges are too clean, and the geometry, it's mathematical, intentional. I was trying to process what she was saying when the second tremor hit. This one was different, stronger. The emergency lighting flickered, and I heard metal groaning somewhere in the station superstructure, the kind of sound that makes you think about whole integrity and pressure differentials.

We both grabbed the nearest handholds. Alvarez's tablet went flying, and I watched it skitter down the corridor as the station pitched forward like a ship hitting rough seas. But we were 4000 meters underwater. There weren't supposed to be any seas down here. The lights went out completely.

Total darkness, the kind you only get in deep ocean installations where there's no ambient light from anywhere. No sun, no moon, no distant city glow. Just black. I could hear Alvarez breathing somewhere to my left. Fast, shallow breaths.

The tremor was still going, and something in the walls was making this grinding noise that sounded like metal being torn apart. Then she screamed. Not a surprised Yelp or a startled cry. A real scream. Terror and pain mixed together in a way that made my blood freeze.

The sound echoed off the corridor walls and seemed to go on forever. I reached toward where she'd been standing. My fingers found empty air. Alvarez. I called out.

Marie. The tearing metal sound got louder, like someone was ripping open a tin can the size of a subway car. I could feel air moving past my face, which shouldn't happen in a sealed corridor system. The emergency lighting flickered back on. Red light filled the corridor again.

I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust, and looked around for Doctor Alvarez. She wasn't there. The corridor was empty, just me standing there like an idiot, staring at the spot where she'd been 30 seconds earlier. Her tablet was gone, too. Everything was gone.

That's when I noticed the Hatch. Corridor B terminated in a standard pressure hatch that led to the unpressurized maintenance section, routine access point for external repairs. When we needed to work on the station's outer hull, the kind of place you only went with a full pressure suit and a safety tether, the Hatch was standing wide open.

I could see into the maintenance section, dark water beyond the emergence lighting's reach, the kind of water that would kill you in about 15 seconds if you tried to enter without proper gear. Doctor Alvarez had been standing right next to that hatch when the lights went out. I found Fernandez in the command center, hunched over Terminal 3 like his life depended on whatever he was typing.

Which turns out it probably did. The guy was going at those keys like they'd personally insulted his mother. Sweat was dripping off his forehead onto the keyboard. Real sweat, not just the usual station humidity stuff. His uniform was soaked through at the armpits and his hands were shaking.

Commander. I said. He didn't look up, just kept typing line after line of code, scrolling across the screen. I recognized some of it. Station diagnostics, environmental controls, communication protocols.

Standard stuff, but way more of it than anyone should need at 2:30 in the morning, Where's Doctor Alvarez? That got his attention. His hand stopped moving. He turned around in that squeaky desk chair and looked at me like I just asked him to explain quantum mechanics in Spanish. Wesley.

He rubbed his eyes. How much did you see? Enough. the Hatch in Bay 4 was open, watermarks on the deck. Her equipment bag was still there. Fernandez stared at me for about 10 seconds.

I could hear the ventilation system cycling and the distant hum of the reactor core. Normal station sounds. Everything sounded normal, except for the part where a crew member had apparently vanished into the ocean. Sit down, he said. I stayed standing.

Just tell me what happened. He turned back to the terminal and saved whatever he'd been working on. Then he closed the program entirely and pulled up a file directory I'd never seen before. Classification codes at the top. Navy stuff, the kind of clearance levels they don't hand out to thermal monitoring specialists.

Cascade Station isn't what you think it is, he said. I figured that was pretty obvious by now. No kidding. Six months ago the drilling operations broke through. He pulled up a technical schematic.

Looked like a cross section of the ocean floor, but with details that weren't in any of the geological surveys I'd seen. We were supposed to be collecting core samples from the Ridge system, standard mineral analysis. That part was real. The schematic showed our drilling sites, but it also showed something else. Cavities, big ones, geometric shapes that definitely weren't natural cave formations.

We hit void space at 2700 meters below the sea floor, Fernandez continued. Should have been solid basalt. Instead we found this. He clicked through a series of images. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.

Corridors, chambers, walls made from some kind of material that looked like metal but had this weird organic texture to it, like someone had grown buildings instead of constructing them. These structures predate human civilization by about 60,000 years, he said. Maybe more. The materials don't match anything in our databases. The construction techniques are completely unknown, and they're intact.

I sat down, had to Naval Intelligence classified the entire discovery within 48 hours, he said. Ordered us to maintain the research station cover and continue monitoring. No one outside of classified personnel was supposed to know, but I've been tracking thermal anomalies for weeks. I said those patterns, the geometric shapes, come from the structures.

They were dormant until our drilling operations disturbed them. Now they're active, generating heat, electromagnetic fields, some kind of resonance patterns we can't identify that explained the synchronized temperature spikes, the mathematical accuracy that shouldn't exist in natural systems. I've been monitoring an alien wake up call for the past month and nobody thought to mention it.

What about doctor Alvarez? Fernandez pulled up another screen. Station personnel files. Alvarez's profile was highlighted. But there were sections I'd never seen before.

Security clearance levels, special assignments. She hadn't been just a geologist, she was Naval Intelligence assigned to monitor the discovery and report back to Washington. The earthquake tonight triggered something in the structures emergency protocols. She went down to the drilling site to collect data, and she hasn't reported back. I stared at the terminal screen.

Doctor Alvarez, who'd shared coffee with me in the mess hall probably 50 times, who'd explained sediment analysis procedures and complained about the station's terrible water recycling system. Naval Intelligence, the thermal readings I've been tracking, I said, How bad is this getting? Fernandez switched to the structural monitoring systems. I'd seen these displays before, but never with this many red indicators.

Stress fractures throughout the station support columns, micro fractures radiating outward from the drilling site like a spider web of damage. The structures aren't just active, he said, They're expanding, growing. The stress patterns show continuous pressure increases across all load bearing supports. The numbers were worse than I'd thought. Metal fatigue approaching critical thresholds.

Foundation instability, The kind of readings that meant serious structural failure within hours, not days. How long do we have? I don't know. Could be 6 hours, could be 6 minutes. That's when the evacuation alarm started screaming.

3 sharp blasts, then the automated voice announcement. All personnel report to emergency stations. This is not a drill. All personnel report to emergency stations. Fernandez was already moving.

He grabbed a data tablet from the terminal and headed for the corridor. I followed him toward the submersible Bay where our emergency escape pods were stored. Standard protocol for deep sea stations. If the structure fails, you get in a pod and ride it to the surface. Simple plan.

Except when we got to the Bay, all six escape pod indicators were showing green. Empty. Already launched? That's impossible, Fernandez said. He ran to the control panel and pulled up the launch log.

6 separate emergency activations, all triggered remotely, all within the last 10 minutes. Someone had deliberately eliminated our only way off the station. The floor decided to throw me sideways again. I was still staring at the launch log when the whole station lurched like someone had kicked it. But this time was different.

The tremor didn't stop after 5 seconds. It kept going and going. I grabbed the console edge and watched the thermal readout spike across every monitor. The numbers were climbing fast. Too fast.

3 second intervals now, perfectly timed, like some kind of underwater metronome. Except this metronome was going to melt our foundation. Fernandez I pointed at Terminal 2. Look at these temps. He was already looking.

His face had gone pale. 800°C and climbing 800. The station's thermal shielding was rated for 6:50 maximum. How long until structural failure? He did some quick math in his head.

20 minutes, maybe 30 if we're lucky. We weren't feeling particularly lucky. That's when I noticed the observation port. There was light coming through it, blue light pulsing. I walked over and pressed my face against the thick glass.

The volcanic Ridge stretched out below us like a broken spine. Cracks were running along the rock face, and that blue light was streaming out of them, bright electric blue, like someone had wired the ocean floor with neon tubes. The light pulsed 3 second intervals, same rhythm as the thermal spikes. Fernandez, you need to see this.

He came over and looked, didn't say anything for about 10 seconds. That's not volcanic activity, he said finally. No kidding. The blue light was getting brighter. More cracks were opening up, spreading across the Ridge like veins.

Whatever was down there, it was waking up, and it didn't want us around. Fernandez grabbed my shoulder. Emergency suits now. He pulled me toward the equipment Bay. The pressure suits were hanging in a row like mechanical scarecrows.

Big bulky things with life support packs and helmet lights. I'd done the training but never used 1 outside of drills. There's a maintenance airlock, Fernandez said, yanking a suit off its hook. Bay 12 leads to an auxiliary escape tunnel. Tunnel to wear surface buoy, 300 meters, up the Ridge, 300 meters.

That's a long climb in a pressure suit. What about the main escape pods? You saw the launch log? Someone sabotage them, right, Doctor Alvarez, or whoever was controlling Dr. Alvarez.

The station shook again, harder this time. I could hear metal groaning somewhere in the walls. The thermal readings were climbing past 900° now. We had maybe 15 minutes before the whole place turned into an underwater furnace. I started pulling on the pressure suit, heavy fabric, thick joints, helmet that weighed about 20 lbs.

The life support pack felt like carrying a refrigerator on your back, but it would keep me breathing for six hours. Plenty of time to climb 300 meters. I hoped. Fernandez was already sealed up. His voice came through the calm system, tinny and distant.

Check your seals. I ran through the checklist. Gloves locked, boots sealed, helmet secure, life support active. Everything green ready. We walked to Bay 12.

The maintenance airlock was smaller than the main one, just big enough for two people. The inner hatch was already open. I looked back at the station one more time. The blue light from outside was getting brighter, I could see it through the observation ports now streaming up from the Ridge like underwater Aurora.

The whole place was starting to shake constantly. Low frequency vibrations that you felt in your bones. Wesley, move. I stepped into the airlock. Fernandez hit the controls and the inner hatch sealed with a solid clunk.

Then came the pressure equalization, that weird feeling in your ears when the air gets thin. The outer hatch opened. Cold water rushed in around our feet. Not much, maybe an inch. The tunnel beyond was dry, carved right into the rock.

Emergency lighting strips ran along the ceiling. I could see ladder rungs built into the walls. I looked back through the airlock window one last time. The station was glowing blue. Light was coming through every surface now, not just the observation ports.

The walls themselves were starting to crack, hairline fractures spreading across the metal like a living network, growing faster every second. Whatever was down there had been sleeping for a long time. We'd woken it up with our thermal monitoring, our constant presence, and now it wanted its space back. Fernandez was already climbing. I followed him into the tunnel.

The ladder rungs were cold, even through my gloves. Each step echoed in the narrow space behind us. The vibrations from the station were getting stronger. I could feel them through the rock itself. We climbed in darkness, just the beam from our helmet lights cutting through the water.

Above 300 meters straight up. That's sixty stories in a pressure suit carrying life support. My legs were already burning after 50 meters, but I kept climbing because down below, Cascade Station was tearing itself apart, and whatever ancient thing lived in the Ridge was finally reclaiming what had always been its domain.