With peace.

Elara froze. The lights on her suit flickered. The ship’s voice, for the first time, became intelligible. It was a child’s voice, fractured and slow, stitched together from two centuries of radio static.

Marina Y171 tore herself free from the basalt pillars, shedding coral like a snake sheds skin. The fault line erupted behind them, a volcano of rock and steam, but the little submersible was faster. It shot upward, trailing a banner of bioluminescent plankton stirred from a millennium of sleep.

Elara patted the warm metal of the deck. “Yeah, kid. Me too. But we made it.”

Until Elara found her.

Elara didn’t run. She grabbed the manual joystick bolted to the ceiling.

The hatch slammed shut.