We descended in decadence, gliding through the frigid waters in ignorance of our goal. The sun had long since been traded for the blackness of the sea by the time we were called to assembly, twelve hours feeling like a lifetime as the pressures built and waned. Our host, Vincent Valcor, had proposed to us a weeklong dive into the ruins of the old world to discover what secrets lay within. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. He was arguably the smartest man in our frozen world. I had always looked up to him, growing up with stories of the polished teen who turned our crumbling country on its head. He had supplied everything for us in his company's newest diving bell, a compact copper vessel that was built like a fortress, but I had brought my own books to brush up on my studies as well as some tea to remind me of home.

     Though it embarrassed me, I was recommended to Vincent as ‘a tea-drinking brawler with a lick of sense and an iron constitution.’ Although Vincent was a charming older man who was as thin as the curls in his mustache, I wasn’t there to be a bodyguard. He was stronger than he appeared on the surface, a man as soft as a lamb with a coil in his gate like a lurking bear trap. He had told me that he needed a man with a mind and mettle and I was the perfect fit for the job. I couldn’t help but feel proud when he introduced me to our small crew.

“Gentlemen,” he began with a smile that pushed up his glasses, “this is Professor Gregor Craymour, head archaeologist, historian, and venerated veteran of the mainland. He will be our final member for the journey. Now please excuse me, I have a few things to prepare before tomorrow, but I trust that you all can get acquainted on your own.”

     He bowed then pushed through a guided door into his quarters, leaving the four of us alone in the galley.

     I approached the sitting crew and extended a hand, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

     One of the men shifted but didn’t rise, crossing his arms as a scowl set itself under his long black hair. The other two were more receptive, the short dapper one giving me a mix of a handshake and a bow.

     “Dr. Bengerman Thornsworth, medic, diver, and linguist,” he said.

     The lanky man looked me over then took my hand, locking his pinky and ring finger between my own.

     “What rank?” I asked him.

     “Colonel,” he said, “My name is Douglas Thornsworth, Benjamin’s brother. I’m our scribe, harpooner, and sharpshooter. And you?”

     “Marshal, but I prefer that you call me Gregor. Who is the chap in the corner?” I said as I nodded my head to the last man.

     He looked up at me with ebony eyes and set his boots on the table, “James Houser. I’m the mechanic and the only one of any use on this voyage.”

     I raised an eyebrow and took a seat before him, “And what makes you say that?”

     “See this?” he said as he raised a wrench and rattled it against a copper pipe on the wall, “This is what keeps us alive.”

     My eyes trailed the uniform pipes that led all around the room and up to the ceiling. My pause made him scoff.

     “You don’t know what they are for, do you?” He asked.

     “No. I can’t say that I do.”

     “How to explain this to an academic,” he began as he rubbed his stubbled chin, “The whole bell is like a heart. It takes in water from the boiler, pumps it through the rest of the bell, and expels it out the top. In short, I keep the whole place warm and I am our shield against the ocean. One wrong twist of a bolt and a pipe could burst, the temperature could drop, or the boiler could blow. So, if you see any gauges or valves, don’t touch them.”

     I nodded despite his rudeness and folded my hands on the table, “Fair enough, I’ll respect your rules, but I will have to ask you to respect mine.”

     James grunted and sank back, “Fine, but if your rules dictate that I participate in some upper-class conversations forget it. I won’t be socializing.”

     I leaned back, my chair creaking on the copper floor, “As you wish,” I turned to the others, “Shall we have a drink to christen our partnership?”

     Douglas nodded and produced four glasses and a bottle of brandy from under the table.

     “Cheers to our new member,” he said with a smile.

     I took in the vessel as we drank and though I tried to hide it, I was completely overwhelmed by the space. Vincent’s company’s symbol was emblazoned on every surface, its outline worked into the copper plates of the floor, the lavish carpet, and was even sewn into the covers of every book in his study.

     This symbol came from a keepsake from his first dive, a small pale blue stone with amber gems that he turned into a pin for his tie. It was an awkward piece with symbols carved on every side and the gems always seemed to glint and glimmer, even in the folds of the dark.

     That afternoon the ice wasn’t too thick in the black water and I felt safe knowing that our oxygen line was reinforced in steel and copper mesh. I spent the bulk of my time in the study with some tea, acquainting myself with the red tomes on Vincent’s fine brass shelves.

     I was met by a bestiary first, monsters like the Kracken and the Midgard Serpent meeting me in the first few pages, but as I dug deeper I found far more hideous and twisted creatures. There were men with angler fish as heads and coiled eels with mouths and eyes running along their bodies. These beasts went on for over a hundred pages, yet other than the sketches, there were no names, no references to culture, just physical descriptions and unsettling passages of how each one dragged victims into the heart of the sea.