Page 62 of Claimed By the Deep
I approach the surface, two hundred yards off the starboard side. The moonlight illuminates the water column, turning my dark form into a silhouette against the silvery background. Timing my arrival precisely, I initiate the bioluminescent display—a cascade of cellular reactions rippling across my skin in patterns that would mean "peaceful greeting" to my own kind but will appear as random, unearthly illumination to human observers.
Through the water's surface, I see movement on deck. Figures rush to the railing, pointing. Camera lenses glint in the moonlight, capturing evidence exactly as planned.
Now for the visual confirmation they'll report to authorities. I extend my dorsal tentacles, allowing them to breach the surface in a sinuous, undulating pattern. The appendages rise six feet above the water, their movements suggesting a creature of tremendous size lurking below. I hold the display for exactly twelve seconds—long enough to be documented, brief enough to maintain mystery—before withdrawing them with a dramatic splash that sends water fountaining into the air.
The waves from this disturbance will persist for minutes, creating expanding rings visible from the ship's vantage point. Perfect.
I dive beneath the vessel, my form shifting to maximize water displacement. The turbulence I create flows against the hull, registering on depth sounders as anomalous currents. Aboveme, the engine noise changes pitch—they're adjusting course to investigate, exactly as expected.
For the finale, I position myself directly below the keel, at precise depth for optimal sonar reflection. I extend every appendage to maximum span, nearly thirty feet across, and hold myself perfectly still. The ship's active sonar pulses against my body, the high-frequency waves uncomfortable but bearable. Each ping returns to their instruments with my unmistakable profile—solid, massive, utterly unlike any known marine species.
I count sixty seconds, tracking each sonar sweep, before collapsing my form and plunging straight down. On their screens, I will have simply vanished—there one moment, gone the next, leaving no trace for their technology to track.
I withdraw to two hundred meters depth, far enough to avoid detection yet close enough to monitor the chaos unfolding above. The Wandering Star's engines have stopped completely. Through the water, I sense smaller craft being lowered—the crew deploying investigation boats, searching for what they believe might be a new species or some undocumented deep-sea creature.
Their excitement vibrates through the water, a mixture of fear and scientific curiosity that travels as clear as spoken words to my sensitive receptors. Men shout to each other across the waves, equipment whirs and clicks, cameras flash. Some believe they've seen a giant squid; others argue for an unknowncetacean species; the first mate quietly suggests something "not from around here" with a reverence that almost makes me smile.
For three hours, I remain motionless, conserving energy while monitoring their activities. They deploy underwater cameras, take water samples, record sonar sweeps across the area. Their methodical documentation ensures that when reports reach the Horizon's research team, the evidence will be compelling, undeniable, and—most importantly—far from Meri and our construction site.
When the Wandering Star finally resumes its journey, the crew buzzing with theories about their encounter, I allow myself to rise just enough to watch it disappear over the horizon. The deception has worked perfectly. By tomorrow evening, the Horizon will alter course to investigate this sighting. After I create two more similar incidents further south, they'll be fully committed to this new search area for months.
I begin swimming again, my body tired but my mind strangely light. For the first time since arriving on this world, I've used my alien nature not to hide, but to protect something precious. The irony doesn't escape me—spending decades concealing every trace of my existence, only to deliberately create evidence when it serves a greater purpose.
A purpose beyond mere survival.
The moon has begun its descent toward the western horizon, casting long silver pathways across the water's surface. I follow one such path, imagining it leading all the way back to the northern waters where Meri works on our future home. Thedistance between us feels physical, a constant awareness in my consciousness like a limb stretched too far.
Two more performances like tonight's, then I can begin the long journey home. Three weeks apart feels like an eternity after discovering what connection truly means. Yet even as the miles between us grow, so does the certainty that this separation serves our ultimate goal—to never be apart again.
For that certainty, I would cross galaxies. I've already traversed interstellar space, survived a crash that killed everyone else aboard my vessel, adapted to an alien biosphere with nothing but determination and biological flexibility. A coastal journey, even one spanning a thousand miles, is nothing compared to what I've already endured.
And nothing compared to what I would endure for her.
I dive deeper, where darkness wraps around me like an old friend. But unlike the decades before meeting Meri, this darkness no longer feels like isolation. It feels like the space between stars—vast but navigable, empty but full of promise.
Because now, even swimming hundreds of miles from where I began, I'm no longer directionless. Every movement, every deception, every careful calculation serves the same purpose: returning to her. To the home we're building. To the future neither of us expected to find.
For the first time in a century, distance doesn't mean isolation. It means the space I willingly cross to protect what matters.
Even when going away means ensuring we can finally, truly be together.
Cyreus
TWENTY SEVEN
The summer sun warms my face as I stand on the aft deck of our newly completed houseboat. Long months of hard work have transformed Fergus's rough sketches and my engineering ideas into something remarkable—a true hybrid vessel that bridges our different worlds.
From the outside, it looks like a modern houseboat with some unusual features—sleeker lines than most pleasure craft, reinforced hull sections, and specialized propulsion systems. Anyone passing would notice it's custom-built but wouldn't guess its true purpose.
The interior tells a different story. The main cabin provides comfortable human living space—a galley with excellent equipment, sleeping quarters with a surprisingly luxurious bed, and a spacious common area for shared meals and conversation. But the heart of the vessel lies below deck, where the specialized chamber I designed allows me direct access from open water.
The chamber is a marvel of engineering—a hybrid environment with variable water levels, temperature controls, andenvironmental systems that can shift between fully aquatic and partially terrestrial settings. I can enter directly from beneath the vessel through a moon pool sealed with flexible, reinforced membranes that admit my body while maintaining watertight integrity. Once inside, I can remain in my natural form or shift as needed depending on our activities.
Fergus named the vessel "Between Worlds," which seemed fitting given its purpose and our unique circumstances. Stenciled across the stern in elegant script, the name serves as both identity and mission statement for our unconventional partnership.
Today marks our official launch—our first journey beyond the sheltered cove where construction took place. The research vessel Horizon departed these waters nearly two months ago, following the trail of "sightings" I created along the southern coast. According to Fergus's sources, they're still conducting intensive research near the Florida Keys, convinced they're tracking a previously undocumented marine species of remarkable intelligence.
The irony isn't lost on me.
