“We tried. It’s not responding. It’s like the rig has its own… will.”

Aris stared at the 970’s live feed. The four pilots—Vega, Chen, Okonkwo, and Delgado—were lying in their gel cradles, eyes darting beneath closed lids. But their neural patterns weren’t random REM cycles. They were synchronized. Perfectly. As if one mind had four bodies.

Aris turned. The 970’s core was no longer a cylinder. It was a sphere now, its surface rippling like liquid mercury. And inside, faintly, he saw a shape. A handprint. Human. Pressed from the inside.

His coffee mug trembled on the desk as the Poseidon II shuddered in its dry dock. Outside his window, the Florida Strait was a black mirror. Inside the rig, the four pilots were already in REM-sleep induction, their cortical implants syncing to the 970’s rhythm.

And on the main screen, the Poseidon II ’s autonomous systems were powering up. Thrusters. Sonar. The robotic arms used for deep-sea sampling.

“Aris,” Vega’s voice came again, but softer now, almost dreamy. “The update… it showed us something. The trench. There’s a structure down there. Not natural. And it’s been signaling us for years. The 970 just translated the signal.”