Unfathomable Depth

Thalassa, a research station orbiting the ocean planet Proxima Centauri b, ~4.24 light-years from Earth. Standard time: 14:59, Wednesday, March 26, 2925.

Alex Kronenberg stood at the edge of a large observation window in his office, his right palm pressed against the cold polymer coating the wall. The soft, pearlescent glow of the ocean planet reflected in the neatly trimmed gray hair of the station’s chief scientist—a military precision to his appearance. His jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame, as if tailored for a broader, sturdier man. Beneath the unfastened collar peeked an old black cotton T-shirt—a memento from a colleague on Mars, the last anchor to a reality where complex equations still had a single correct answer, even if not the simplest one.

Kronenberg ran a hand over his face. When his fingers brushed against the small scar above his left eyebrow, the sensors of his personal biomonitor registered a spike in his pulse—the only sign that beneath layers of analytical detachment, honed over years in his position, a flicker of human anxiety still smoldered.

His gaze, gray and nearly colorless, fixed on Thalassa’s key metrics projected onto the window by ceiling-mounted lasers. But Alex wasn’t seeing numbers. Instead, his mind replayed the barren landscapes of the Martian wastelands, where he had once commanded a secret underground lab. He remembered that day—when the last level of Olympus-9 had to be purged with a nuclear blast, along with everyone who couldn’t be evacuated in time.

It seemed the time for difficult decisions had come again.

The very scenario he had feared all these years.

Below the station’s belly, the endless, shimmering ocean pulsed—alive, breathing, alien. Kronenberg knew its parameters by heart: average depth 12 kilometers, salinity 30.8%, polar temperatures hovering around minus ten degrees Celsius, yet the water never froze. This planet defied familiar rules, even as it echoed Earth in so many ways.

It boasted rich flora and fauna, worthy of study. But the researchers had been drawn here by a different mystery. Something that had made the Institute of Space Exploration divert funding from all other projects and build Thalassa in record time.

A second Anomaly had been discovered.

Similar to the one now buried forever in the depths of Mars…

A quiet cough sounded behind him.

Now, two figures were reflected in the transparent metal of the window.

One—tall, lean, with a beard trimmed just short enough to fit inside a standard spacesuit helmet: Kronenberg himself. The other—stocky, clean-shaven Arkady Suvorin, head of Thalassa’s Security Service.

The visitor’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the hard plastic of his belt-mounted armor plate—a habit left over from his service in the Space Forces.

"The forty hours you asked for are up," Kronenberg said. "Report."

"My team found nothing new. No bodies, no logs, no signs of a struggle."

"So, you’re saying the crew just… vanished?"

Suvorin pursed his thin lips.

"You know that’s physically impossible, Chief. Either they were forced to abandon the Poseidon… or—"

"Or what?"

"Or they left on their own."

"Brilliant deductions, Arkady."

"I don’t have data for any other theories," Suvorin replied, a hint of offense in his voice.

Alex turned to face him.

"How is it even possible—to venture into the depths of an alien world without protective suits? Willingly or not?"

Suvorin shrugged.

"I was the first aboard the Poseidon after its return. You followed. This morning, we both read the reports from the experts who combed every square centimeter. Everything’s in place—except the crew. The logs are wiped, even the black box. The auto-return must’ve triggered because all other systems failed at once."

"An electromagnetic pulse?"

"Could be."

As if synchronized, both men glanced at the large monitor to the left. The screen displayed a feed from Hangar Two, where the Poseidon sat—massive, black and white, streamlined like a beached orca. Its airlocks hung open, and its running lights flickered red intermittently. Security and tech personnel still moved around and inside the vessel.

"The emergency subsystem worked as intended," Kronenberg mused, replaying the scenario, searching in vain for a clue. "Brought the ship up from the depths, returned it to orbit, docked with Thalassa. But the crew was gone, and all the magneto-optical storage—"

He spoke slowly, weighing each word as if it had to pass an internal censor—first for content, then logic, before being allowed out.

"—was empty," Suvorin finished impatiently. "Not damaged—just blank. Like there was never any data to begin with. That’s all we have, Chief. There’s only one possible cause—the very thing they went down there to study."

Kronenberg felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"The Anomaly is behind this? Is that what you’re saying? But the station’s sensors haven’t picked up anything unusual… beyond what we’ve already seen in this ocean’s depths."

"What does your Martian experience suggest?"

"Well done, you’ve read my file. First-level access suits you."

"Don’t remind me. I know I got promoted only because of you. Back to the Anomaly—what do you think?"

"Yes. You’re right. But that’s why the Institute equipped us with safeguards—so what happened on Mars wouldn’t repeat. They trained the crew! Warned them what they might face. Yet no one can explain to me now why they ignored all protocols! Not the psychologists, not the investigators, not you—the head of Security!"

Suvorin remained grimly silent. His gaze drifted to the window—down at the murky waters of the alien ocean. To where, roughly ten kilometers below, something lurked.

An entity had announced its presence with a radio signal when the first Earth reconnaissance ship entered this system. The pulse repeated, over and over. The now-familiar activity had prompted the Institute to build Thalassa in orbit.

Like on Mars, this Anomaly did not respond to any queries on the same frequencies. And in some inexplicable way, it disabled every probe sent into the depths. They lost contact, never resurfacing.

Now, it seemed, this entity had claimed the Poseidon’s crew—those who had dared to study it up close.

Too many parallels to the incident a decade ago...

Kronenberg forcibly shook off the clinging tendrils of memory.

Now was not the time for reflection.

"We need to go down there. As soon as possible," he said quietly. "I could order it, but I’d rather you made the choice yourself—"

Suvorin gave a slow nod.

"Understood. I’ll volunteer. But on a different ship. Prep the Triton."

"Why not the Poseidon?"

"Because it’s been there. Near the Anomaly. Something’s… off about it now. It’s changed."

"Be specific, Arkasha," Kronenberg pressed, though he too had felt unease when boarding the empty vessel two days prior.

"I don’t know, Chief. That ghost ship gives me this… unexplainable dread. Like something’s watching us through its dead cameras and sensors. That same creeping feeling of being observed we’ve all had since arriving here—only stronger."

Kronenberg’s wrist communicator buzzed sharply. He glanced at the screen—a new message, ISR channel.

"Fresh transmission from Earth, relayed via the latest subspace probe," he muttered, swiping the display. "The Institute’s sending a ship. ETA two days. Exact arrival time specified. Orders—I’m to greet it personally."

Suvorin ventured a guess:

"Reinforcements? Military or scientists?"

"Neither." Kronenberg frowned. "Only one person aboard. The missing engineer’s twin brother. Michael Andersen."

"A twin?" Suvorin scratched his chin. "You’re telling me they’re sending a relative to a classified site? Why?"

Kronenberg shook his head slowly.

"You’re Security Chief—you’ve read Viktor’s file. Take a guess."

"Right, right," Suvorin muttered, recalling. "The brother. There was a note… something about mental issues. Some serious condition. Now I’m even more lost on the Institute’s motives!"

"You’re mixing things up," Kronenberg sighed. "It mentioned a parapsychological phenomenon. Their minds have been linked since birth. Shared dreams. What one knows, the other knows. Viktor was the transmitter, Michael—the receiver."

Suvorin blinked.

"So what now? Michael sensed his brother’s gone silent? And now he’s coming here so the Institute can confirm it’s not a broken antenna but a dead transmitter?"

"Agreed. It seems pointless."

"Or maybe he has intel on his brother’s fate?" Suvorin suggested.

"Hm." Kronenberg grunted.

"No, I doubt a psychic will clarify anything," Suvorin dismissed his own idea. "Surviving down there, unprotected, is impossible. Even if he did catch some final images or sensations before Viktor died—just agony flashes. If their link is even real. I’ve seen enough psychic shows—all vague guesses and staged theatrics."

Kronenberg didn’t answer. His gaze returned to the window, but his eyes were unfocused, as if seeing not the ocean but something distant, unreachable.

"You missed part of Viktor’s file," he finally said. "Michael Andersen was never supposed to come here, let alone speak with us. But for different reasons."

"What reasons?"

"According to that note, Viktor’s brother has been in a coma for the past eighteen years."

Suvorin froze.

"They studied them, Arkasha. The twins. The Institute wanted to see if the link would hold across vast distances. Measured brainwave patterns. Viktor was frequently pulled into med-bay for tests."

"Where’d you get that? Definitely not from his file. Seems we read different documents."

"The coma part—from the file. The experiments? Viktor told me himself when I asked why one of our engineers kept hogging med-lab time."

"Huh. Funny how none of this was briefed before we left Earth. Well, the higher-ups work in mysterious ways. Let me re-guess why they’d send a comatose psychic: the link’s still active?"

"Let’s assume so."

"Then there’s hope our missing crew might still be alive."

"Possible. Maybe they found an air pocket beneath the ocean floor. Went to explore, thinking it safe—or appearing so. Then something happened, and the autopilot brought the ship back without them. I’d hoped your team would confirm this in forty hours."

"No sediment on the Poseidon’s hull, Chief! Sample bays empty. It never touched the bottom."

"A long ascent could’ve washed it all off."

"No. You saw the reports."

"Assume someone made a mistake."

"Both experts?"

"All of them, for all I care."

"Fine. The next dive’s a rescue op—but which crevice do I search? How long can they last while my team combs the depths?"

"Look near the Anomaly. Maybe Andersen’s brother can give us a hint."

Suvorin laughed nervously.

"How? Hook Michael to an IV and wait for Viktor to speak through him? Might as well air it live—housewives system-wide would tune in."

Kronenberg scowled at the sarcasm.

"I don’t know how it’ll work either," he grumbled. "And there’s more. The message includes another order: ‘Provide Michael Andersen with all necessary equipment and intel—up to clearance level one—regarding the Anomaly on Proxima Centauri b, upon his first request.’"

"What the hell? A coma patient can’t request anything! How’s that possible?"

"I don’t know! I don’t!" Kronenberg snapped, turning back to the window, staring at the ocean. "That’s all. Report acknowledged. I need to think. Dismissed."

Suvorin didn’t argue. He cast one last glance at the strange patterns beyond the glass—like oil swirling in a vast, murky puddle—and left.

His footsteps faded down the corridor.

Silence.

Below, in the hangar, the Poseidon sat quietly, its red lights flickering.

And deep in the ocean, something emitted another short, powerful radio pulse.

Then another.