The Havenites hauled the boat back into the water like men fleeing a curse.

  Mereque waded in to help.

  Jenker waved the others off.

  Mereque lifted the craft overhead (one-handed, easy) and set it down gentle as a cradle.

  The three crewmen stared.

  He climbed aboard.

  The youngest (Puddles) fired the engine. It growled to life.

  They shot northwest, black water slapping against the hull.

  Mereque sat low when told—his weight tilted the boat like a bad joke.

  Silence ruled. Only the waves and the motor made any sound.

  They listened for pursuit. None came.

  The silence pressed heavier than the waves.

  Mereque stared at the black water.

  No wings. No fractured portals. No dragon roar.

  Just the motor and the slap of hull on sea.

  He felt the absence like a held breath.

  They’d survived the beach. Survived the knights. Survived the dragon’s fire.

  But survival wasn’t victory. It was just the next heartbeat. And the one after.

  Mereque’s thoughts finally caught up.

  Antoinette.

  He’d sealed her in a vac-bag, buried her under rock.

  Good enough to keep the scavengers off. Not good enough for her.

  He still had to tell Pellon. The words tasted like ash already.

  He stared at the black water rushing past.

  The boat felt small and the ocean felt endless.

  He was one man in a broken suit, carrying the weight of five hundred dead.

  Jenker sat beside him, but the crew kept their distance.

  Mereque didn’t blame them.

  He was a stranger carrying ghosts. He was still bleeding in places he didn’t have time to reach. And he was almost twice their size.

  He closed his eyes. The ocean carried them forward. Into whatever waited next.

  He thought of his crew (faces he’d known for years, reduced to silence in vacuum). He thought of Pellon, waiting for news that would break him. He thought of Jenker beside him (alive because Mereque had refused to leave him).

  The sailor hadn’t flinched at the blood or the horrors they faced together. Hadn’t flinched at the sight of him (as large as he was). Just accepted him.

  Mereque opened his eyes.

  The stars were the same ones he’d left behind. But the men around him were new. Fragile. Human.

  He would protect them. Because he was tired of burying people.

  Jenker poked his shoulder. Pointed. Mereque looked.

  Through the dark, something loomed ahead of them.

  Out of the dark rose a shadow (tall, wide, wrong).

  The Havenites steered straight for it.

  Mereque raised an eyebrow.

  The tower looked like a barnacle grown too big for the ocean.

  “It’s bigger below,” Jenker leaned in, winking.

  The boat scraped to a stop on wet metal.

  Crew killed the engine.

  Water streamed off the rising hull (dark aquamarine, glossy as seal-skin).

  Lights woke along the tower, soft and steady.

  "The Urchin Gull," Jenker said proudly.

  Half a kilometer easy, and that was just the part above the water.

  Mereque felt the old mission stir.

  They were advanced. Organized. He put that in his internal log for later.

  The hull curved smooth, no welds visible, no rivets—just seamless metal that drank the moonlight.

  Lights traced veins along the tower, pulsing faint blue like a heartbeat.

  He’d seen colony ships smaller. People who built like this might listen. Might help. Might have answers.

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  He looked at the crew moving with practiced ease, with no fear of the dark water. They weren’t primitives.

  They were survivors. Like him. The mission wasn’t dead—there was still hope.

  Jenker barked orders.

  “Fishburn—secure the tug! Rest of you minnows, below!”

  The mask was off. The cagey prisoner had been a captain all along. Mereque almost smiled.

  Secrets kept both of them alive.

  He watched Jenker (captain now, his mask gone, voice carrying easy authority). The man he’d pulled from a cage commanded a submarine the size of a city block.

  Fate had a sense of humor. Cruel, but fair.

  The crew obeyed without question. No stares at the giant in broken armor. Just work.

  Mereque felt something loosen in his chest. He wasn’t alone anymore. Not completely.

  The thought settled warm within him, foreign after so long.

  Jenker’s crew moved around him like he belonged. No questions. No fear. Just space made for him in the boat, in the plan.

  He looked at the Urchin Gull rising from the dark water (silent, massive, alive). Home for them. Temporary harbor for him.

  He flexed his patched hand. The pain was dull now. Manageable.

  The mission had changed.

  Find Earth—done.

  New priority—find survivors.

  With a submarine and a captain who owed him, he might have a chance.

  Mereque allowed himself one small breath.

  It wasn't a victory. But it was a start.

  Mereque didn’t blame Jenker for the secrecy. He’d have done the same. Captains made better hostages.

  Dim lights woke along the deck.

  Fishburn deflated their inflatable.

  Jenker led them to twin rows of glowing markers.

  The deck irised open (smooth, silent ramp dropping into the sub’s belly).

  Armed crew poured out, rifles up, forming a perimeter. Two fell in as escort.

  Inside was all iron and rivets (pipes snaking overhead, bulkheads scarred by salt).

  The sub felt solid. Real. For the first time in ages, the ground didn’t feel like it wanted him dead.

  Crew snapped salutes at every porthole. Jenker returned them crisply.

  The men’s eyes held real respect. Not just rank. It was love.

  Mereque watched the salutes, the quick smiles. These men would follow Jenker into fire.

  He’d seen that kind of loyalty before. On the Cazues. Before everything burned.

  Jenker didn’t demand it. He earned it. One order at a time. One laugh at a time.

  Mereque felt the old ache. He’d had that once. He knew this place (or a place just like it). Now he had ghosts.

  But watching Jenker, something stirred. Maybe it wasn’t gone forever.

  A tall, thin commander ducked through a hatch.

  “Captain Dammad. Welcome aboard.”

  Jenker saluted back.

  “Commander Esark. Good to see you.”

  Esark’s gaze snapped to Mereque.

  Jenker clapped the giant’s arm.

  “This is Mereque. He pulled me out of the fire. Treat him right.”

  Esark nodded, wary but obedient.

  Mereque met the commander’s eyes. Measured. No fear. Just calculation. This man was sharp. He knew threats when he saw them.

  The silence stretched (thick as the salt air outside).

  Esark’s gaze traveled Mereque’s height, the cracked armor, the dried blood. Not curiosity. Not fear. Assessment.

  Mereque held it. He’d faced worse stares. But this one carried weight. Esark was second in command. He protected the ship. The crew. The captain. He could relate.

  “Cabin first,” Jenker said. “Debrief in an hour. Get us clear of that cursed rock.”

  Esark gave Mereque one last measuring look, then nodded.

  “Understood, sir.”

  But his eyes didn’t leave Mereque (while he was within sight). The message was clear. Welcome aboard. But watched. Always watched.

  Mereque felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

  Good. He preferred honest suspicion to blind trust. Trust got people killed.

  The escort peeled off (corridors swallowing them one by one).

  Puddles and Chef split for the bridge with Esark.

  Jenker stopped at a hatch, spun the wheel, pulled it open smooth as silk. He waved Mereque in. Mereque ducked low (habit now).

  The cabin was long, lived-in.

  Air smelled of oil, old paper, and faint pipe smoke. Bulkheads scarred by years of salt air. A hammock swung in one corner, netting stuffed with rolled charts. Brass lanterns hung low, swaying gentle with the sub’s motion. Personal touches everywhere: a carved whale bone on the shelf, a faded photo of a younger Jenker with a group of girls.

  Mereque felt the weight of the lives lived below the waves. Safe. Contained.

  The opposite of the bleeding chaos above.

  He ran a finger along a lantern’s warm glass and smiled.

  Books lined one wall (real paper, leather spines, thick as fists).

  Mereque’s breath caught.

  He hadn’t seen paper books since academy archives.

  Military history. Nautical charts. Tactics.

  His translator stumbled over faded titles, gave him fragments.

  Enough to know this captain read war like prayer.

  Jenker disappeared through an inner hatch, whistling.

  Mereque sat on the long couch.

  A heavy table dominated the center (maps pinned with brass, coastlines inked in salt-stained detail).

  Mereque leaned closer.

  Depth contours in careful blue. Reefs marked like minefields. Currents arrowed in red.

  Someone had spent years learning this ocean’s teeth.

  Undersea routes. Escape routes. He traced one with a finger. North. Away.

  The ink was faded but precise. No guesswork. This captain planned like he fought—thorough, no wasted motion.

  Mereque felt respect settle.

  The maps weren’t just paper.

  They were survival.

  Jenker’s whistle drifted back, off-key but cheerful.

  Mereque leaned back.

  The sub thrummed around him (steady, alive).

  For the first time in weeks, he let his eyes close. Just a minute. Just one.

  Hot water rattled through overhead pipes.

  Mereque caught the hiss of a shower starting.

  He almost smiled.

  The sub had plumbing. Real plumbing.

  He opened his eyes again and leaned back on the couch.

  This was Earth. He’d made it. But nothing matched the archives.

  No cities of glass. No orbital rings. Just dragons, knights, and a submarine that looked grown more than built.

  The mission briefings had been wrong. Or time had broken everything.

  Jenker’s whistling had transformed into loud (off-key) singing.

  He glanced at the bookshelves. Paper books. Real paper.

  He stood, pulled one free (thick leather, gold lettering).

  Forgotten Catastrophes and the Dark Ages of Man.

  His translator stuttered over the handwritten script (beautiful, careful, like art).

  He activated optical record.

  Pages flipped fast (one heartbeat each, images burned into memory).

  A line resolved:

  …the Industrial Age ended in fire. Two wars took hundreds of millions. The Third took the rest. We pieced it from stories and ruins…

  Mereque’s throat tightened.

  World War I. World War II. He knew those.

  Every kid on Leopold Seven knew them. Digital archives. Lessons drilled into them.

  But a Third?

  Nothing in the records. No mention. Ever.

  He read the line again.

  …the Third took the rest…

  His pulse kicked.

  The colony ships had left before it happened. That explained the silence. Thousands of years of nothing. No signals. No return. Just ghosts.

  He flipped faster. Optical record burning every page. The Global Sodality. The Free Peoples Party. Symbols he’d seen carved in ruins.

  Answers. Real answers.

  They’d lost everything. And rebuilt anyway. Who were these people? The descendants of some survivors? They might have a lot more in common than he could have hoped (even a day ago).

  He slid the book back. His heart was racing.

  These books weren’t just decoration. They were lessons learned the hard way.

  He traced another spine with his finger. Tactics. Nautical charts. History written in blood and ink.

  This captain didn’t just sail. He studied. Prepared.

  The sub wasn’t a toy. It was a fortress. A home.

  The shower cut off. The singing did not. A few times he had to wince.

  Jenker would have answers. Or at least a place to start asking.

  Mereque sat again.

  The sub thrummed around him (steady, alive).

  It was the first time since the crash that silence didn’t feel like he was waiting for the next disaster. It felt like it was waiting for the next page.

  For now, he was inside. Safe. And the past was starting to whisper to him. It felt good.

  Jenker’s footsteps. Perfect timing.

  The captain stepped in (clean, new clothes, hair still wet).

  Mereque met his eyes. He had questions. A lot of them.