He straps into his rubber pressure suit, a routine he’s performed countless times. The suits were specifically designed to protect the crew in the case of a breach in the submersible, although they had a mixed record of success. Hopping off the dock and onto the ladder, he descends into the cramped submersible, shutting the hatch behind him. Using hand signals, a universal language under the waves, he informs the boss that they’re ready to dispatch. The sub disengages from the dock, beginning its hundred meter descent.
The Fishing Hole, a five-hundred foot diameter hole in the middle of the floating city Branswain, gives submersibles access to the depths below, densely populated by whales.
The submersible is able to tow up to three carcasses behind it, depending on their size. After finding only a scrawny youngling, the sub dives deeper, eventually reaching 300 meters in depth. The submersible’s headlights are barely able to penetrate the dark, the water growing thick and slow, reluctant to move.
Even at this depth, the crew is unable to find any semblance of life. That is, until they do. It’s massive, larger than any whale he’s seen before. The beast seems already dead, or close to it. A gaping wound decorates its stomach. Its eyes seem mournful, and they fill him with an intense sadness. Nonetheless, the crew secures it to the back of the sub.
It is not quite a whale.
