From Below

1

The Gulf of Bothnia, forty-one miles off Sweden’s east coast

The morning of the first dive

The camera’s view blurred, then sharpened again to focus on a woman’s profile. Cove Waimarie bent over a table, a wash of wavy black hair hanging like a curtain over one side of her face as she scratched in a notebook with a thick lead pencil. Behind her, the lounge’s large plateglass windows filled the room with cool light. Foamy waves rose into view as the boat tilted.

Hey there, Roy said from behind the camera. Guess what? We’re live.

She lifted her head, a mischievous smile forming as one eyebrow quirked. Got it running, huh?

For the moment at least. He adjusted the camera, forcing the lens to refocus. Cove’s form bled into the searing light behind her before shifting back to reality. Did you want to do an intro, or—?

The day I say no to that is the day you need to put me out of my misery. Cove straightened and leaned one hip against the table, her feet crossing at the ankles. The ship rolled with every wave that passed underneath, but she showed no signs of losing her balance. Just like her outfit—white linen pants and a tan blouse that emphasized her warm complexion—the pose looked both comfortable and effortless.

We’re moored in the Gulf of Bothnia between Sweden and Finland, a day’s travel from port. Somewhere in the water beneath us is a lost shipwreck that has both captivated and puzzled the world for decades. Why did it sail so far off course? What caused it to sink? Over the next few days, we intend to find our answers. How was that?

The final question was directed at Roy, not the camera. He kept the bulky recorder propped on his shoulder but freed one hand to give her a thumbs-up. Did you rehearse that, or does it just happen?

My father always told me to find a job that I love. Her smile widened, shining white against bronze skin, her green eyes filled with laughter. And I love talking, so here I am.

Well, there aren’t many jobs that involve watching movies all day, but I got the next best thing. Roy flipped the camera and held it up to capture his face. The close quarters distorted his broad jaw and filled the lens with a view of thick, dark stubble. "Making movies."

A man’s voice, dense with frustration, called from somewhere deeper in the lounge: You’re a camera technician, not a director.

Ah, ah, ah. The camera rotated again, its view rocking wildly across the metal floor and cracked paint before fixing on one of the darker corners of the space. A man lounged in a swivel chair, a circuit board held in one hand, screwdrivers and solders scattered on the table behind him. That’s our ROV wrangler. He was supposed to drop his little robots into the water and guide them down with a joystick. But just like with my film equipment, his robots went on the fritz sometime between leaving port and mooring. However, unlike my film equipment, he’s been unable to bring them back online. Say hi to the camera, Sean.

Sean, with his buzzed hair and gaunt, heavily creased face, only glared at Roy.

Some people would say it’s a bad omen. The camera turned to catch another, much younger man. He sat forward in his chair, legs flung out at uncoordinated angles, a mug clutched in thin hands. A batch of freckles—swelling thanks to the ocean’s inescapable sun—covered his pale skin. He seemed faintly shocked that the camera was facing him, like a child caught trying to take a chocolate from a box meant for the adults.

Say hi, Roy prompted.

Hey. A cautious smile formed. Unlike Cove, he had trouble making eye contact with the camera. Um. I’m Aidan? I guess?

You guess? Roy broke into heavy laughter. If we’re talking bad omens, I’d say forgetting your name is high up on the list.

Sorry. I’m just saying. Aidan became aggressively preoccupied with his feet, tilting them in and then out again, his knuckles flushing white against the steaming mug. It’s kind of weird, right? The ROVs go out. The main camera and backup camera go out. Our navigation system glitched and sent us twenty miles off course…

Cove crossed to Aidan’s side and pressed one hand onto his shoulder, her other tucked into her back pocket. You know, I like to think of it as excellent luck.

Oh? Roy lowered his stance to give the camera a better angle of Cove’s smiling eyes.

"Yeah. Before, our plan was to send the remotely operated vehicles down for the majority of the exploration. Now? We get to do it. We’re going to walk the Arcadia’s halls ourselves. That’s pretty lucky in my books."

Aidan couldn’t quite meet her gaze, but he couldn’t hide a grin either. Yeah, okay, that’s pretty neat.

As for the equipment malfunctions, Devereaux thinks we likely experienced a solar flare that damaged the more delicate equipment. The diving suit gear all seems to still be in good shape, and it sounds like Roy here saved at least one of the main cameras, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re barely impacted.

Something clattered behind them. The camera turned just in time to catch a circuit coming to a halt on the desk where Sean had thrown it. The room was silent for a second, then Cove’s voice returned, strong and encouraging. Our dive isn’t scheduled for another hour, and I’ve gone over the equipment so many times that my eyes have started to cross. Now might be a good time to introduce the team. What do you think?

Roy adjusted the camera on his shoulder as he swiveled back to her. Let’s go for it. Speed run?

Speed run it is. Cove clapped both of Aidan’s shoulders as she leaned close to him, tangling her hair into his. You met Aidan. He’s basically holding this whole show together.

His grin was growing more flustered. I’m…I’m the uh…the assistant.

He’s modest. Cove shrugged. "He does everything from prepping food to assisting the rest of us with our work. And he’s heading down to the ocean floor with us. Give him a few more years, and he’ll be managing his own chartered adventures. Now, we have Roy. Camera, audio, lights, all the important stuff."

Still behind the camera, Roy whooped.

Hell yeah, Cove called back. "We have some really neat gadgets for this trip. Because of the depth, we’ll have limited time inside the Arcadia, so we want to make the most of it. Roy’s ensuring none of the cool stuff fails on us. Next up, Hestie, who is somehow able to read at a time like this."

The camera moved to catch the opposite side of the lounge, where a thin, wiry woman sat with a paperback clasped in her lap. Her pale hair was aggressively, furiously curly, to the point where she used multiple scrunchies to keep it contained in a ponytail. Frizzy strands still spilled free, framing her face and pale-blue eyes. She smiled at the camera, showing large buck teeth but, like Aidan, struggled to make eye contact with the lens. I’m a bit queasy. Her voice was soft, and Roy moved close to capture it better. Just trying to keep my mind off it.

Cove made a sympathetic noise. The first time my father took me onto a boat, I spent the whole time returning the seafood I’d eaten for lunch back into the ocean. Keep the ginger close and let me know if I can hold your hair back, okay?

Oh, I’m not… It’s just nerves. Hestie cleared her throat, gaze flitting across the floor as she tried to find something to settle on. Yeah. Thanks.

"Hestie’s our marine biologist. She is the expert on the ocean in general and especially this region. We’ll be going to her to identify every fish and sea sponge we spot."

The large teeth flashed back into view as she smiled, pleased. Degree in biochemistry and microbiology, PhD in marine biology, postdoc in coral-plasticine interactions. Honestly, I’m just happy to be paid for something that relates to my career.

Aidan piped up. I’m just glad to be paid period.

Both Cove and Roy laughed, Roy slapping the nearby wall for emphasis.

All thanks goes to Vivitech Productions for that, Cove added. Their sponsorship means the world. Not only do we get to explore this magnificent location, but we get to share it with everyone else too, thanks to this documentary.

Thank heaven we still have the cameras, Roy said.

Speaking of technical equipment, we can’t forget Sean— Cove’s voice cut off as the camera turned. Sean was out of his chair and shoving through the lounge’s door to disappear into the hallways below. A woman, climbing the stairs to reach the lounge, pressed close to the wall to avoid being shoved.

Roy made a noise that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh. He’s just salty because he thought his ROVs would be the star of the show, and now they’re bricked and he has nothing to do.

He’ll have plenty on his plate, Cove said, her voice still warm. We all will. Our dive window is limited, so it’s going to be a hectic few days. We haven’t introduced Devereaux yet, but I think we’ll save him for later and cut straight to Vanna, our diving specialist. How are we looking?

Vanna, entering to take Sean’s place, carried a dry suit draped over her forearm. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes scanned the occupants. She was a few years older than Cove, crease lines forming around her lips and between her eyebrows, and her short-cropped hair was swept back from large eyes and a broad jaw. She failed to return any of the smiles directed at her. We should begin preparing.

I love your timing. We were just about climbing the walls up here. Cove pushed away from the desk she’d been resting against. Hestie took a short, rasping breath as she put her book down and joined Aidan in trailing behind the camera as the crew followed Vanna into the deeper parts of the ship.

Outside, the ocean swelled, heavy with dark promises.

2

Cove kept her feet light as she descended the narrow stairwell. The metal slat steps clattered under their shoes and the scratched, white-paint-covered walls seemed to squeeze inward, as though wanting to crush her.

She’d never gotten around to introducing herself to the camera, but that was fine; they’d need to record a separate segment later, maybe even back at the studio, that would serve as the film’s introduction. Cove wasn’t exactly a foreign face for documentary enthusiasts either, though she was still waiting on her chance to break into mainstream recognition and cement her place in the world as a conservationist and educator.

The company sponsoring them, Vivitech, had a reputation for short projects and cutthroat budgets, but they still had the capability to create an award-worthy documentary…as long as they were given the material to work with.

Who knew? Maybe this documentary would be the one. That all depended on what they found waiting for them on the gulf’s floor. Something visually stunning, Cove hoped. Even better would be clues to what happened in the ship’s final few days. Everyone, herself included, was desperately curious to know how an ocean liner could vanish so thoroughly on what was supposed to be a routine voyage. And Cove, more than the others, needed the expedition to be a success.

They turned a corner, passing the mess hall, and descended a second flight into the storage area where their dive suits were kept.

She’d spent much of her life diving, mostly at warm-water reefs, but this was her first venture into the deep ocean. She was qualified. Barely. Just like most of her team.

It was common practice in the genre of documentaries she hosted to overstate a situation’s danger. Pretty woman in peril was a motif the studios liked, even when it was rarely true. Cove had stood within twenty feet of wild lions as she elaborated on the ferocious crushing power of their jaws—failing to mention that those lions were safari regulars that had grown up comfortable and lazy around humans. She’d hiked mountains in blizzards, speaking in a rushed whisper to her handheld camera about the early signs of hypothermia, even though a tour guide and her crew were off to one side and a helicopter was on standby to carry her back to her hotel for the night. She wasn’t the only host to do it either. They were all competing to make their situations seem the most hazardous, the most adventurous, to remind those at home that there was still plenty of adrenaline to be found out in the wild, even though half the time the wild was twenty meters off a paved road.

Cove thought this might be the first time in her career that she wouldn’t have to exaggerate the risk. Mountain climbing and wild animals and swamp waters were dangerous, yes, but deep-sea diving was an entirely different field. It wasn’t even uncommon to hear of divers with a lifetime of experience perishing in familiar waters.

And she and her crew weren’t just diving to the ocean floor. They were going inside a wreck. Cove knew what that meant, even if the bouncy lilt in her steps maintained that everything was fine. Going inside the wreck meant poor visibility. Narrow passageways. No one to help if they became trapped.

They had an experienced diving instructor—Vanna—but Cove still wasn’t sure what to make of her. She usually found it easy to read other people and easy to make them like her. Vanna was a no-go on both. She’d barely said a word since they’d cast off from shore, and that was two days ago.

They reached the landing, and Cove swung around to face Roy’s camera. Eyes bright, smile warm, keeping her face at its best angle. Through here’s our storage room. We keep our diving equipment locked up tight when it’s not in use. Check it out.

She stepped back so Roy could move the camera through the narrow metal door. Where they were, on the ship’s lowest floor, was already technically underwater. The metal hull groaned as the vessel tilted. There was a strange, echoey hollowness to that level, and Cove couldn’t help but feel that the ocean was already trying to suck them under.

We have our food and fuel and spare bedding here too, she said, running her hands along the shelves as she approached the racks at the rear wall, but we keep the good stuff over here.

The ship was technically larger than seven people needed, but the storage area still felt cramped and full of clutter. Roy, tall and broad shouldered, was struggling to fit between the shelves without ruining the shot.

Vanna already waited by the diving suits. They had five in total. Two of their crew—Devereaux and Sean—didn’t have deep-sea diving certification. Those courses, required for anyone who wanted to go below what was considered the safe limit for recreational diving, weren’t common.

Cove loved the ocean, but a tight work schedule meant she could rarely make more than five or six dives a year. This would be her first unsupervised dive at those depths.

She was pretty sure she could say the same for Hestie Modise. The wild-haired marine biologist had spent substantial time in the ocean as part of her degree, but her dive log suggested she rarely dipped under the water when it wasn’t professionally necessary. Cove supposed it was possible to love the ocean but not love being in the ocean.

Roy Murray picked up a range of work as a cameraman, and his experience around reef filming meant he spent plenty of time underwater, but generally only at shallow depths and in tropical regions. He’d rushed through his deep-sea certification to join the expedition, dragging Aidan along with him. Apparently they’d met during a vacation and become close. Cove had been seeking a cook-slash-assistant, and the timid, self-conscious boy tested well on camera, so she’d taken him. She was now starting to second-guess that decision.

If just one or two of them had been inexperienced, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But collectively, they amounted to perhaps one and a half truly good divers. And most of that was down to Vanna.

We’re lucky to have Vanna Ford with us, Cove said, putting one arm around the older woman’s shoulders. She felt Vanna tense and hoped it wouldn’t show on camera. She has over four thousand logged dives. A good part of that is open-water scuba, but her true passion is cave diving. Would you say that’s right, Vanna?

The woman’s bony shoulders felt cold under Cove’s arm. She let the silence hang for a painful second, then said, Yes.

Okay. This part’s going on the cutting room floor. Cove let go of her companion and leaned on the racks instead. My crew’s safety is always my top priority. What’s waiting for us on the ocean floor is a veritable maze of tangled metal and tilting corridors. That’s why we wanted Vanna: she’s unparalleled in navigating tight spaces, having been recognized as one of the top cave divers in the southern hemisphere. Vanna, how do you think we’re going to fare down there today?

Vanna’s heavy eyes narrowed a fraction, giving Cove the sense that it was a ridiculous question. She took a beat to respond. Fine. If you follow my instructions.

We intend to. Especially since we have these. Cove picked up one of the helmets. We’re using full-face masks. That means our breathing apparatus isn’t connected to our mouths, leaving us free to talk through built-in radios. Not just that but these masks are fitted with some of the best underwater cameras. Two of them per person, in fact, with matching lights: a set facing forward and a set watching our backs. If a shark sneaks up on us, we’ll catch it in wonderful HD.

There won’t be any sharks down there, Hestie piped up. She and Aidan had been so discreet that they’d blended into the background. Even Roy seemed to have forgotten they were at his back and had to do a strange hopping step to get them into frame.

Cove nodded encouragingly. Hestie darted her eyes to the camera and back, uncertain where to look, before clearing her throat. Normally, currents are constantly cycling the ocean’s water, carrying in fresh oxygen and keeping everything, well, alive. But this is a bit of a dead spot. The Gulf of Bothnia has very slow water movement and therefore very little oxygen. There will probably be some old barnacles—we like to call them rustacles—but no coral and no fish.

And no sharks, Cove confirmed. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Suit up, Vanna interjected. We’re losing time and energy.

Cove chuckled, nudging Vanna’s side with her elbow. A woman on a mission. I like it.

Roy had them wait while he positioned the camera on a tripod to record the room, then all five began pushing and pulling into their equipment. They were using dry suits, which had the advantage of a waterproof outer layer. It was more than a luxury in this part of the world—the wreck’s depth and location meant the water temperature hovered a chilling two degrees above freezing. The dry suit would at least stop them from turning into human icicles.

The dry suits went over their clothes; that morning they’d all chosen warm, breathable fabrics that wouldn’t trap sweat. The extra layers of wool knits and shearling fleece would double their insulation. While the dry suits weren’t skintight like a wetsuit, they covered the entire body—boots included—and were a pain to struggle into.

No one was surprised when Vanna finished the suiting process first. She sat on the edge of a low desk, her face mask cradled limply in her hands, unspeaking and unmoving except for her eyes. She watched the divers closely as Roy tried to shove his feet down into the boots and Hestie hopped in a half circle as she shimmied into the suit.

Even Cove, used to every kind of scrutiny, felt exposed under the cool, appraising stare. She finished suiting up shortly after Vanna though and flexed her gloved hands experimentally. The suit felt oppressive on land, but she knew she’d be grateful for it once they entered the water. All right, Aidan?

Yeah. The boy was struggling to zip up the back of his suit, but Roy took a break in straightening his own to help.

You’ll be fine down there, Vanna said, startling Cove. She held Aidan’s gaze as she gave him a slow, thoughtful nod. You’re small. You’ll fit into narrow gaps. A lot of cave divers wish they had your body type.

His laugh was weak and quickly petered out. "Oh. Gee. I don’t know if I’m cut out for…for cave diving or anything."

What about me? Roy, finished with his own suit, rotated to show the room his handiwork. I might not be supermodel thin, but you’d be surprised at how flexible I can get.

Hm. Vanna offered nothing else, leaving the impression that she anticipated the giant of a man would become jammed.

I’m ready. Breathless, Hestie fought to secure her hair into a bun. Sorry for holding everyone up.

No need to worry! You’re fine. Cove tucked her helmet under her arm and scooped up her bundled diving apparatus: the fins, weight belt, wrist computer, and strap of tools that would help them navigate the ocean’s floor. If everyone else is good to go, let’s head up.

The ascent to the ship’s deck was less coordinated than their descent had been. Aidan, already seeming overburdened with his own equipment, had taken on Roy’s so that the taller man could follow with their camera and continue filming. It was hard to know what would and wouldn’t make it into the final cut, but Cove knew the moment they first plunged off the side of the boat would inevitably make for a good shot.

Biting wind cut into her face as she exited the ship’s heated interior and crossed the deck. She was grateful. The slowly building stress was fogging her head, and the cold helped to give her some focus. The sea provided good atmosphere that day: hazy clouds dulled the light and the swell, while not dangerous, was riveting. Angry gray waves, crested with flecks of white as the wind snatched at the most vulnerable peaks, swelled and dipped beneath them.

Their ship, the Skipjack, had arrived at its destination the night before and moored less than twenty feet from their target. It would stay there for the next three days as they fulfilled their mission and gained enough footage to make the executives at Vivitech Productions happy. Their contract stated twelve hours of footage at the dive site. Cove had negotiated that down from thirty. This wasn’t a reef film or a warm-water dive where the crew could bob in and out of the ocean multiple times per day; deep-sea diving meant dealing with decompression sickness. Every minute they spent at depth would worsen the symptoms, and even with the special mixes of gasses in their cylinders designed to minimize the effects, they would still have to return to the surface in stages. Twelve hours was asking a lot, especially in the limited time they had.

They collected their air tanks and fins and then fumbled to strap on their belts, their dive weights, and their computers. Vanna circled the crew like a vulture, tugging at dry suit’s zippers and rattling their equipment. The creases around her mouth and between her brows took on a strikingly defined edge in the muted light. She squinted at a fleck of salt water as she backed toward the ship’s edge.

I’m the safety officer on this journey. That means, as long as you’re in the water, you listen to my instructions above all others. Understand?

Her voice was stronger and harsher than Cove had ever heard it. The crew mumbled their assent, clustered close together against the gusting wind.

The wreck will be filled with silt. The more you move, the more you kick up, the worse visibility becomes for all of us. Go slow and careful. If you can’t keep your movements graceful—a pointed glance at Roy, who, even behind the camera, managed to display a twist to his lips—try swimming frog style: move your arms and legs to the sides, instead of up and down.

Silt can take days to settle, Cove added. And we don’t have that kind of time to wait around for a clear shot. We need to get this right the first time, okay?

More muffled assents. Aidan’s skin had taken on a gray shade, and Cove knew that the sheer magnitude of what they were about to do was hitting him.

Vanna continued as though Cove hadn’t spoken. "If you feel unwell, call an end to the dive and begin your ascent immediately. If you feel drowsy, call an end to the dive and begin your assent immediately. Follow the decompression routine as established. This is not the place to push your luck."

This was all information they were well familiar with. Cove glanced toward the door leading to the bridge. Through the smudged window, she saw Devereaux, their historian. He stayed in the warmth, a mug held close to his face so that the steam condensed against his white beard. He gave a small smile and a nod.

A dark shape merged into the shadows behind Devereaux. Sean. He shifted, and Cove caught a glint of one eye: harsh and unnatural in the gloom. She looked away, disguising her discomfort by moving to stand at Vanna’s side as the woman continued with their instructions.

"We’re operating on the rule of thirds with our air. One-third to get down and explore the wreck. One-third to decompress on the way back to the surface. One-third in reserve, in case of emergencies. We’re bringing down three supplementary tanks as backup. They’ll be left at the wreck’s entrance, near the dive line, but we won’t be using them because we’re not taking risks. Agreed?"

Muffled yeses came back.

Cove braced against the ship’s railing as she gave a final glance across the team. Roy stood several paces back, still carrying the camera. He’d pass it off to Devereaux once he’d gotten a shot of the rest of them entering the water. From then on, they would be relying entirely on the cameras in their masks.

Aidan’s gray shade had worsened, and Cove was genuinely concerned that he might be sick. If you were going to lose your food, you wanted it to be on the surface, not at depth.

It’s not too late. Tell him he won’t be going on this dive.

Vanna’s eyes were on her. Dark, heavy lidded, no trace of emotion inside but waiting nonetheless. Cove knew what for. Vanna was in charge of their safety underwater, but ultimately, Cove was in charge of the mission. Vanna wanted her to dismiss Aidan.

But the camera was still running, and Aidan was pulling his mask over his face and connecting it to the tanks with unsteady hands.

And she couldn’t afford to dismiss anyone. Not when she’d gambled so much on this expedition.

Cove, breathing faster than she would have liked, pulled her own hood into place. It scraped her ears and snagged her hair as it settled over her head, creating a smooth surface for the diving mask and leaving only an oval of her face exposed. She hadn’t realized how loud the ocean had been until the sound of the slapping waves and rushing wind faded beneath the hood. She pulled the mask on, flexible straps snapping around the back of her head to hold it in place, then turned on her air. Just like that, she was cut off from the larger world. For the next three hours, she would have nothing but this closed system to rely on. Every breath of air would come from the cylinders attached to her back. Her hands and feet could move but she would touch nothing but the neoprene inside her suit. She was an astronaut on her own planet.

Vanna made no sound as she fit her own mask in quick motions. Their tanks, the heaviest part of the gear, were strapped into place: two on their back, plus an extra, smaller canister on their sides to keep their dry suits inflated.

Cove was supposed to be in command, but she’d never felt so frantically out of control. Not when she’d been in the blizzard, not with the bonobos tugging at her clothes, not when her canoe sprung a leak during filming. She could do nothing as the rest of her team lined up against the railing, backs to the ocean, ready to tilt over and drop into the depths below.

Vanna was still at her side. Cove glanced down. For a second, she thought her mask had water inside and was distorting her vision, then she realized what she was really seeing. Vanna’s gloved hand, gripping the railing, shook. She tilted her head and Cove had a split-second glimpse of the whites of her eyes, then Vanna fell backward and entered the ocean in a plume of frothy water.

I can still put a stop to this, she thought irrationally, but she couldn’t. Hestie had already dropped in and Aidan followed immediately behind. It was done. The camera was on her, and if she hesitated even a second longer, it would show just how terrified she was, so she tilted backward and let gravity do the rest.

She felt the impact across her back, reverberations running through her lungs. Her face was pointed skyward, and bubbling water rushed across her mask, distorting her view of the boat and the sky. The glare-filled light began to dull as the ocean thickened over her and she faded into the abyss.

Her final image was of the camera lens aimed at her over the railing, watching her like a giant, black eye.

3

18 April 1928

RMS Margaret, 135 miles off Ireland

Two days before the sinking of the Arcadia

Pan-pan.

Phillip startled back to awareness. The clock on the dash ahead of him said it was shortly before four in the morning. He’d dozed off in the dimness of his corner, near the back of the RMS Margaret’s bridge.

He was alone on the bridge with First Officer Forster. Forster sat by the windows, his cap low over his eyes to dull the overhead lights, his skin seeming to sink into his skull as he stared through the windows at the empty night sky.

Phillip was certain he’d heard a voice, but Forster showed no reaction. Moving gingerly, twitching at a pulled nerve in his neck, Phillip straightened in his chair. He still wore the wireless signal headset, he realized. The cushioned earpieces were so familiar to him that he barely noticed their weight any longer. He’d been waiting on a confirmation from a different ship when he’d dozed off. Now, he touched the headset, waiting and listening. The voice came through again.

Pan-pan.

It was a universal distress signal. Not as severe as mayday—that required lives to be at risk—but a sign that something had gone wrong. A failed engine, or noncritical damage to the hull, or a ship that had become stranded.

Phillip flicked a switch to put himself online as he leaned over his desk. "This is the RMS Margaret, Communications Officer Bowden. What’s your situation?"

It was only after he spoke that Phillip realized there had been something…off about the voice. Communications personnel were known for being forthright to the point of bluntness. They spoke clearly and quickly, relaying messages with minimal excess words. They had to. Every ship shared the same handful of frequencies; to spend excess time hemming and hawing over your message meant you were potentially blocking other more important communications from getting through.

But that voice—the pan-pan voice—had been slow. Breathy. As though it had been starved of oxygen. As though the speaker was fighting to stay awake.

Phillip had an awful squeezing moment of terror. How long had he been asleep? How long had the unknown caller been breathing into his ear, waiting for an answer? Hours?

It came again, and this time, there was a real undercurrent of terror to the words. Pan-pan.

"I hear you. This is the RMS Margaret. Please state your name and position."

There was a very long pause. Second Officer Forster had turned from his post at the bow to watch with dark eyes. Phillip didn’t like the tilt to the officer’s jaw. It was as though Forster felt the same sticky, heavy dread that had infected Phillip. As though they had both been sucked into a nightmare they didn’t yet fully comprehend.

The voice swallowed. A smacking noise came as lips were wet. Then, "I’m aboard the SS Arcadia. Things are going bad, old boy."

Phillip had his pencil poised at the ready. What are your coordinates?

51.43 N, -19.26 W. Or 45.42 N, -14.17 W. Or…hell. I don’t know any longer. I don’t know where we are. How long has it been? There are too many. Too, too many…too many…

Phillip’s stomach churned. He knew the Arcadia. It was a regular on the transatlantic crossing. He’d taken calls from it before—not distress calls, just messages to be passed along, warnings of unfavorable weather ahead, the usual—and had passed back just as many. At no point had he received anything of this nature. He knew the Arcadia’s main communications officer too: Drummer. A good man. Steady, reliable. This voice was not Drummer’s.

It’s 56.43 N, 2.87 W, I think, the awful voice continued. Osman is dead, and Baines and Boswell and Rudd are dead, and I think Wilton may be gone as well. There are just too many—

Phillip had written down all coordinates but underlined the last set. He hated the voice’s gasping quality. The way every breath seemed to pain it. The phlegmy gurgle at the back of its throat. What’s your situation? What happened?

They’re in the walls. The voice gasped, a choked laugh that curdled and quickly died. It seemed to say something else, but a hissing burst of static cut through the channel.

Phillip frowned, straining to hear. Repeat, please.

In the walls… The voice from the radio groaned, and the sound seemed to travel not only through Phillip’s headset but into his bones as well, causing them to ache. "The walls."

Please repeat— The bridge’s lights shimmered, flickering. Phillip pressed himself back against the desk as he stared up at the bulbs that sparked and threatened to blow.

Then the voice rose, flooding his ears, filling his head, raw and battered with terror: "There are bodies in the walls."

Footage recorded on the night before the first dive

A shaky camera flickered to life. It captured dull gray metal walls, rivets in the ceiling, and then, as it straightened, Aidan. A triumphant smile bloomed. Harsh light flooded his face, washing his freckles into almost nothing, and created a crisp circle on the wall behind him.

Hey. He spoke softly, glancing toward the ceiling as he did. I’ve got to be quiet. The others are still at dinner. And I wanted to do this alone. If he knew, Roy would—breaking into awkward laughter—Roy’s brilliant, and I’m so grateful he found me this job, but if he knew what I was on about, I’d never hear the end of it, y’know? And I don’t want him accidentally spilling this to you, Pen, before I’m ready. So—

Some part of the ship creaked, causing Aidan’s head to snap to the side, toward the stairs. He was still laughing, but it held nerves.

I’m in the storage room. The other cameras are all broken, including the ROVs. Roy says he can fix them, and I bet he can, but right now all we have are the mask-mounted cameras we’ll be wearing underwater. So, y’know, fingers crossed they work just as well on land.

He shuffled back against the wall, holding the camera in both hands. The angle was crooked, cutting off the top of his head and one eye, and focusing the light on his grin.

I’m pretty sure no one will be going through this footage until it’s time to cut the documentary. I don’t know if the studio will want to include this bit, but I hope they do. It’s—ah, well, it’s—

He was laughing again, sparkling eyes and anxious, flickering smile betraying his nerves. The camera’s view adjusted as he switched to holding the mask with one hand, the other reaching inside his shirt. When he pulled his hand out, it was clasped around a silver chain. A delicate diamond ring hung from the end.

Pen, when I get back, I’m going to propose. And I hope the studio includes this bit in their documentary because then we can watch it together and you’ll see just how long I’ve been thinking about this and how much I want it and how madly in love with you I am.

Again, the ship creaked, and Aidan snapped around before dropping his head with muffled laughter. You can see why I’m doing this away from Roy. He’s a good guy, a really good guy, but he’d give me hell.

Aidan let the ring drop back against his chest, on the outside of his shirt. I’ve been carrying this for the last four months. Just in case I found the right moment. And then Roy mentioned this trip to me and I thought… I don’t know. It’s something big, right? It’s important. People will remember it. Not many people, maybe, but some. Enough.

A heavy wave hit the ship’s side, but the sound was dulled to almost nothing. Inside the hull, the storage